LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 
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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



IN 



RHYME AND TIME. 



Shakespeare's Birthday. 
Poems. 



r. 



Translations from Goethe 



7 



CHARLES GILDEHAUS. 




— T3^ 

[S: r * 



SAINT LOUIS: 

John L. Boland Book and Stationery Co., 

610 WASHINGTON AV. 
1895. 



Y5>^ 



O^ 






Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1895, by 

CHAS. GILDEHAUS, 

In the office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. 



FRHBS OP 

Nixon-Jones Printing Co. 
215 Pin© St., St. Louis. 



TO THE READER. 

Concerning the original poems contained in 
this little volume, the author has nothing to say: 
these must speak for themselves or remain silent. 

A word of apology or explanation, however, 
would seem to mitigate the arrogance attach- 
ing to any attempt at translating from Goethe. 
Beyond a moment's curiosity, I do not hope to 
please any one acquainted with the genius of the 
German tongue ; as soon would I expect to de- 
light an Englishman with a German translation 
of King Lear. To those, however, not familiar 
with the text of a master, who with Homer and 
Shakespeare completes the triumvirate of the 
world's greatest poets, to those I venture the 
assertion, that Goethe's truth is so profound, his 
beauty so resplendent, that even a weak transla- 
tion of his lines will excel the original of many 
another. 

(3) 



4 TO TEE BEADEB. 

Now, as to the inexorable dilemma which con- 
fronts and discourages every translator : how 
free, how literal shall he treat the text? Every 
true lover of art condemns the man who with 
unhallowed hand takes undue liberties with that 
which, by reason of its perfection, has grown 
sacred. And yet a literal translation, word for 
word, will not merely, as may be seen in some 
who have tried it, render many passages ridicu- 
lous, but would, if rigidly pursued, admit neither 
rhythm, rhyme nor metre. If to paraphrase be 
iniquitous, let the pedant still bear in mind, that 
this heinous offense undergoes no amelioration 
when committed against the spirit of a poem. 
A true translation, I doubt if there be one, 
proves true to both the content and the form. 
Whenever in my navigation through Goethe's 
poems I found my course endangered by this 
Scylla of content and this Charybdis of form, I 
have always, however distasteful the choice, 
preferred the living spirit to the dead letter. 

G. 



CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Shakespeare's Birthday 9 

Poems. 

A Wanderer. - 47 

My Choice 49 

Her Birthday 51 

My Dream and Helen's 52 

Which? 54 

Too Late 55 

The Children's Ball 56 

My Rose 59 

Defiance 60 

Resignation 63 

In Love's Remembrance 64 

To Shakespeare 66 

Daphne's Sosg (from Telemachus) 67 

Kate's Song (from Sibyl) 69 

Nil 70 

Man 70 

Consolation 72 

The Sparrows and the Lark.. 73 

The Two Pines 74 

Brook and Ocean 76 

The Devil 78 

Optimism 79 

Epigrams 81 

(5) 



b CONTENTS. 

Page. 

Translations from Goethe. 

The Rosebud on the Heather 91 

Found , 92 

The Shepherd , 93 

To Luna 94 

A Lover's Longing 95 

Calm at Sea 96 

Admonition 96 

May Song 97 

The Shepherd's Lament 99 

To the Moon 100 

Sledge or Anvil 101 

Vanitas ! vanitatum vanitas ! 102 

The Angler 104 

The KiDg of Thule 105 

The Youth and the Millrace 106 

Mismatched 109 

Apology 109 

Elegy III 110 

Elegy X Ill 

A Lover's Letter Ill 

The Goblet 112 

Cupid as a Landscape Painter 113 

The Frogs 116 

Different 117 

Ingenious Impulse 117 

To an Original 118 

The Way of the World 118 

Sayings in Rhyme 119 

Tame Xenia 123 

Sayings in Prose 124 

Indulge the Woman in her Will 132 

If the Landscape I'm to Show 132 

To the Countess Titinne O'Donnell, who requested 

one of my Writing Quills 1 32 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 

Some say the world's a mill wherein man's life 
Like to the clattering wheels goes round and 

round 
Grinding of trifles. Be that as it will, 
This day we'll steal out of the busy year, 
And glide on Fancy's pinion to the spot 
Where Shakespeare dwelt. If we have eyes to 

see, 
Strange wonders may be ours ; for on the brink 
Of sedgy Avon, where old Stratford stands, 
The immortal sons and daughters of the poet 
Do yearly congregate, and bring to him 
Their natal greetings. Most of them we'll see, 
But many a noted one must need escape, 
So numb'rous is the multitude of those 
That celebrate to-day. 

(7) 



1. The Tempest. 


17. 


Coriolanus. 


2. A Midsummer- Night'sDream. 


18. 


Julius Caesar. 


3. Measure for Measure. 


19. 


Anthony and Cleopatra. 


4. The Two Gentlemen of 


20. 


King John. 


Verona. 


21. 


" Richard II. 


5. As You Like It. 


22. 


" Henry IV. 


6. The Winter's Tale. 


23. 


The Merry Wives of Windsor. 


7. Cynibeline. 


24. 


King Henry V. 


8. The Merchant of Venice. 


25. 


" Henry VI. 


9. All's Well That Ends Well. 


26. 


" Richard HI. 


10. Much Ado About Nothing. 


27. 


" Henry VIH. 


11. The Comedy of Errors. 


28. 


Romeo and Juliet. 


12. The Taming of the Shrew. 


29. 


Othello. 


13. Twelfth Night. 


30. 


King Lear. 


L4 Love's Labour's Lost. 


31. 


Macbeth. 


15. Timon of Athens. 


32. 


Hamlet 


16. Troilus and Cressida. 







(8) 



SHAKESPEARE ' S BIB TED A F. 

I. 

Who may the leader be of this vast throng 
And high festivity? It is a poet, 
The image of his maker — Prospero. 
With mighty arm he curbs the Caliban, 
While o'er his head the host of imagery, 
Exquisite Ariel and the dainty shapes 
Of Fancy are a-wing. Harmoniously 
Their flight is pitched in measure to his step, 
And as he walks, obediently they fly. 

II. 

From fairy-land, from the Athenian wood, 
From Summer-Night's Dream comes King 

Oberon, 
And impish Puck and queen Titania 
Vexed and fretting for her stolen boy ; 

(») 



10 IN -RHYME AND TIME. 

Theseus, the duke, with his fair Amazon, 
The troubled lovers and the cruel father, 
The clod-poll, Bottom, and the other asses, 
Quince, Snug and Flute and Snout and 

Starveling. — 
But see, what strange and supernatural things 
Swarm round about us. Time is young again, 
And the air breeds spirits as it did of old: 
Uncanny elves with globy long-eared heads 
Striding on spider legs ; and fairy freaks 
Of waggish mien, twisted and pressed and pulled 
From all proportion; goblins and winged sprites 
Like dragon-flies enchanted ; uncouth imps 
And horned snails, and locomotive plants, 
And things that waver 'twixt the definition 
Of nature's kingdoms. In bewildering flight 
They fill the atmosphere ; and man himself, 
Entangled in their chaos of unreason, 
Becomes deranged. Still, we shall find some 

method 
In this profuse confusion, if we can 
But shake this all-surrounding madness off 
And view it from be} 7 ond, a looker-on. 
Bottom, for instance, and his neighbor louts, 
With asses' hoof would tread the buskin here, 
While Theseus with prosaic understanding 
Sits critic. Let us look at them again : — 
No counterfeit for Bottom: on my life, 
He knows what's what. Yes, sir; he'll have his 

moon 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. H 

In body physical, or not at all ; 
While Theseus says, the whole affair is moon- 
shine, 
And nothing more; the poet is a^ madman, 
His art is lunacy, his whole creation 
An idiot's offspring, — Theseus, that will do. 
You may be wise in more than one respect, 
But, mark you, as a judge of poesy 
You sit not far from Bottom. 



III. 



Here comes Vincentio, the lenient duke, 

And at his side the snowy Isabella 

Who fled the lewd world and in barren cloister 

Immured herself, till wisely she concluded, 

That chastity, to reap her own reward, 

Must interchange her virtue with another, 

Be a true man's true wife. 

And after them comes Angelo, the fraud, 

Who posed as justice and who ravished justice, 

Who sneered at mercy and who lives by mercy, 

Or else had perished. Measure still for Measure 

By highest court is meted out to all. 



IV. 



Verona's gentlemen. True Valentine 
And Proteus, fickle as his name imports, 



12 m BHYME AND TIME. 

Are here at hand; two pretty damsels walk 
Along by them. And, look you, in the rear, 
Lag two whom nature bred in happy mood, 
Launceand his old dog, Crab. 



V. 

" Under the greenwood tree," list to the song, 
" Who loves to lie with me," whence the .gay 

throng 
That sheds the perfume of delicious green 
Along its path, as if young nature had 
But now created them ? These are the folk 
From Arden forest, who re-enter now 
The world whence they were banished. Men 

and women, 
Perceive you, come in pairs. There is the duke 
With all his retinue; and there's Orlando 
With arm around his charming Rosalind, 
Whose merry spirits bubble o'er with laughter 
And roguish joy, as she relates to him 
The cunning of her pranks. Along by them 
The wise fool, Touchstone, saunters. By that 

vague 
And absent-minded look of his I know, 
That in his workshop he is busy now 
Whittling: a bolt that will not fail to strike 
Straight in the center. 



SHAKE SBE ABE'S BIRTHDAY. 13 



VI. 

Yon lady whose bewitching countenance 
Seems both to invite and to repel our passion, 
That is Hermione, the wife of wives : 
And at her side, the monarch of Sicilia, 
Once called the rash Leontes, but now purged 
With fifteen years' contrition. In their wake 
Follow the flowrets of the Winter's Tale, 
Sweet Perdita and constant Florizel. 
Next comes the wise Camillo: he would speak, 
But quick Paulina, with a tongue for two, 
Says, " dear Camillo, we are partners now, 
Let us divide our work, and each do that 
He can do best. I'll speak and you shall think. 
A troop of gaily-spangled shepherdesses 
With true Polixenes, Bohemia's king, 
Completes the picture. 



VII. 

Here comes a ruler born in Caesar's day, 
King Cymbeline of Britain. Take no heed 
Of him, nor of Pisanio, nor Posthumus, 
Nor any of these mounted noblemen, 
However haply you might see among them 
An ancestor of yours. Ignore them all, 
Dull not the edge of your eyes' appetite 
Before the feast ; for in this moving billow 



!4 IN BBYME AND TIME. 

The pearl of the ocean dwells. Imogen, 
Soft as the breathing of thy own sweet name, 
Speech can not compass thee ! — Ere she was 

born 
The elements of heat and cold were never 
So deftly mingled. She's the miracle 
Of frost and fire : Cupid's rosy torch 
Nourished with untouched snow. Our common 

fires 
Will heat the metal to a ruddy glow, 
But, Imogen, with purer, finer passion, 
Burns white, immaculate. 

VIII. 

The next group in our holiday procession 

Is come from busy Venice. There's Antonio 

The generous merchant prince, with his dear 

friend, 
Bassanio, bold and dashing as a knight 
Of love should be. Gratiano holds them both 
With his eternal tongue ; and they must listen, 
Or he will cut them with his stinging wit. 
That is Lorenzo, and the pretty Jew 
Is Jessica, become a Christian now. 
Next comes Nerissa, and along by her 
The gentle Portia walks. Observe her well ; 
For we shall never meet another one 
In whom the qualities of woman's virtue 
Dwell in that true harmonious equipoise 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIBTRDAY. 15 

As in Bassanio's wife. With tottering step 
Shylock, the Jew, approaches: wiser now, 
In having learned that there is more in law 
Than naked justice. Justice he demanded, 
And justice he received. Justice had slain him, 
But mercy lets him live. 



IX. 



And here is Helena, whose fixed hunger 
Dared her assume the pitchy garb of shame, 
And by the ugliest and unholiest means 
To gain her end, her Bertram. Look, she smiles, 
And to our head-shake on her doubtful method, 
Says, " All is well that ends well." 



O Cupid, Cupid, thou art mighty yet, 
For, look you, here is signior Benedict 
Locked side by side in matrimony's yoke 
With Beatrice, than whom there is no woman 
With sharper tongue. For many a month and 

year 
These poured the vials of disdainful jest 
On love aud family. Nor is it strange 
Two scoffers so alike in hate as these 
Would find some admiration for each other. — 
If ever retribution came to mortal, 



16 m BHTME AND TIME. 

We have it here. Still, they're a goodly match ; 

And calumny, whose breath did almost poison 

The love that Hero held from Claudio, 

Might blow on Benedict and Beatrice 

Until his lungs were empty. — In the press 

Comes Dogberry, the justice, still proclaiming 

" I am an ass; " a satire most severe 

Upon the rulers and the state who failed 

To find what this great blockhead stumbled on. 



XI 



These are the dupes of Error's Comedy : 

Two Dromios and two Antipholi, 

And wives and friends and creditors and debtors 

And a long train of chance acquaintances, 

Who by this likeness of exterior semblance 

Were cast into confusion limitless. 

See, how they stare in blank bewilderment 

On nature's repetition. In good sooth, 

Nor can I tell which are from Ephesus 

And which from Syracusa. Let us ask them. 

Heigh, you twin clown, I pray thee, stop a 

momeut 
To tell us which is ^ hicb, and which are you ! 
" Ask me no whiches, we are all bewitched: 
And yet, good sir, I'll take upon myself 
To show you him that hails from Syracusa, 
If first you pick the clown from Ephesus." 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 17 



XII. 



Petruchio and his Kate, his bonny Kate; 
Not wild Kate now, but meek and gentle Kate, 
Whose tetchy humor and insane caprice 
Lacked nothing but a glass to see it in. 
Petruchio held the mirror to the shrew, 
And since his medicine was like for like, 
Her meekness, too, will find in him reflection, 
And make him gentle. 



XIII. 

Twelfth Night or What you Will. By my advice, 
Take all of them, for all are excellent. 
If you would see a blind man, fix your eye 
On yon Malvolio, blinded by conceit ; 
He mumbles greatness, greatness thrust on him. 
If you would see an ass, there's Aguecheek: 
A simple-minded, shallow nincompoop, 
Full, full of emptiness. If you would see 
A man composed of jollity and drink, 
There's Uncle Toby. Scrutinize him well: 
Those merry little eyes, that countenance 
So rarely rubicund, that spacious belly, 
And the rich splutter of his gurgling speech 
Proclaim a constellation most adept 
In midnight revel and symposium. 
If you delight in shrewd diplomacy, 

2 



18 IN BEYME AND TIME. 

Observe Maria, how she deftly casts 
Her angling-hook, and for no less a fish 
Than big Sir Toby. And if you delight 
To bandy words, accost yon shaven fellow 
In motley coat, with cap and bells ; I warrant 
He knows a thing or two. The pretty page 
Hard by Orsino's side is Viola: 
Love on her lips and patience in her eyes, 
She is content to look on what she loves, 
Until her harvest ripes, and 3he may feed 
To her rich heart's content. 



XIV. 

List to the jingle now : a war of wit, 
A wilderness of puns and repartee 
And jibes and mockery. Four merry maids 
And each one mated to a goodly man, 
Though perjured. For these fellows had for- 
sworn 
Female society. Love's Labour's Lost 
Is writ across their banner. On they pass. 



XV. 

What may this creature be ; or beast or man, 
That dashes towards us with impetuous haste 
Alone and solitary ? Stop your ears ! 
The foulest pool in hell is sweet compared 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIBTHDAY. 19 

To Timon's filthy mouth. Here might the devil 
Himself play pupil in vocabularies 
And learn new oaths : for Timon's trumpet tongue 
Leaves not a curse unuttered. Foul and naked 
He shakes his arms aloft and raves against 
His fellow man. — This wretch, so needy now, 
That from the earth he digs the sustaining root, 
Was once endowed with opulence of gold 
Like unto Croesus. Timon, look within ! 
'Tis not ingratitude of other men 
That crumbled you. You sinned 'gainst prop- 
erty, 
Although it was your own, and now your deed 
Falls heavily upon you. Let us learn ; 
There's a divinity in our possessions, 
Which smites the offending prodigal as well 
As him that hoards it. 

XVI. 

I hear the footfall of Homeric men, 
I see the women of a classic age. 
These fair proportions are not tailor-fathered: 
The simple folds are beautiful because 
The body swells symmetrical within, 
Giving the garment life. Here comes Aeneas 
With mighty Hector, and that goodly pair 
Is Troilus, constant both in love and war, 
With his young brother, Paris; face and 
features 



20 JiV BEYME AND TIME. 

Seductive, proud and graceful as a god. 

Peruse him well, that you may understand 

Why Helen slipped. Here is the king of men, 

High Agamemnon, with his Spartan brother ; 

The brawny Ajax, fiery Diomed ; 

And yonder sullen man whose grim aspect 

Threats thunder, that's Achilles in his wrath; 

The type heroical that knows no law 

But his own will. First person singular 

Is deity to him, and yet he smites 

Those that would pray like he. A tragic fate 

Is thine, Achilles. Nestor pleads with him, 

But he attends not. At his other side, 

Behold Ulysses : lofty and serene 

He steps 'mong men in proud pre-eminence, 

For Jupiter on the Olympean peak 

Is not more conscious of supremacy 

Than this Ulysses. In that massy brain, 

Whose front is furrowed deep with meditation, 

Pallas Athene keeps her laboratory, 

Fusing the chaos of contending wills 

To order infinite. — " But where is Helen?" 

Nay, rest your eyes on him we speak of now, 

None greater can be seen. Our master poet 

Speaks with a thousand tongues, but not a voice 

From his immortal six and thirty plays 

Comes laden with such pure philosophy, 

Such unfringed logic, as the heavenly bard 

Breathes with Ulysses lips. — "Now as I live, 

That's Helen." No, 'tis Cressida, false Cressid, 



SHAKE 8FE ABE'S BMTHDAY. 21 

In whom the flush of roseate desire 

Burns with an impure flame. She made her lips 

A common pasture for the liberal Greeks 

Ere yet the kisses of her Trojan lover * 

Had quit their fruitful print. A spotted soul 

Widely inhabits the delicious body 

Of foul-fair Cressida. See, how she plays 

For Diomedes now: her breath is warm, 

And Diomed will melt. She is a siren 

Whose beauty is her chattels, and she doles them 

Enticingly ; uncovering here and there, 

Now more, now less, e'en as the occasion 

prompts 
To tempt the buyer. — "Tell me, where is 

Helen?" 
Helen is here, but I'll not point her out, 
Since many a man gazing upon this wonder 
Did ever after seal his eyelids up, 
Wishing to see no more. 



XVII. 

The march goes on, 
The Greeks and Trojans vanish from the scene, 
Whit*,h now must shift from the Dardanean shore 
To Rome eternal. Here's Coriolanus, 
The proud patrician, and his Roman mother, 
Volumnia, who loved her country more 
Than all the world beside. For sacred Rome 



22 IN RHYME AND TIME. 

She sacrificed her son, her valiant Cains, 
Although no mother ever suckled child 
So Titan-like as this one. Mark the fall : 
His pride was pardonable while his valor 
In Rome's defense bepainted his fair body 
With wounds as numerable as the stars 
That shine in heaven's face; but when his pride, 
For pride's sake only, jumped his spleeny hand 
To slap the face of Rome — then he must die. 
For Rome could never yet endure a man 
Prouder than Rome. 



XVIII. 

The next that here appears 
In Romish toga clad is not more tall 
And not more heavy than the average Roman, 
Yet when he stirred, the sides of the earth did 

spread 
To furnish room and breathing space enough 
For Julius Caesar. Nor before, nor since, 
Have mighty aud diverging faculties 
In any one man so been multiplied 
As in this Caesar. On his right hand walks 
The festive Antony, whom soon we'll see 
Spurning the sway and sceptre of the world 
To melt in Egypt's arms. — There is the faction : 
Keen and sagacious Cassius ; Marcus Brutus, 
Less wise than honorable : plain blunt Casca 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 23 

With China, Decius, and the entire band 

Of high conspirators, who could not see 

That Caesar's spirit was a mightier thing 

Than Caesar's flesh. Now will Marc Antony, 

Possessed with Julius' disembodied soul, 

Set Rome ablaze, and on Philippi field 

Will Caesar's ghost grasp the great traitor's 

sword 
And stick 't in's traitor heart. 



XIX. 

Behold, a ship ! 
It hails from Afric's shore, from Egypt's sum- 
mer, 
Where the warm god who teems in Nilus' banks 
Kisses the foot of Alexandria's wall 
With fruitful lips. This paraphernal vision, 
Which looms on 's like a dream of the Orient, 
Is Cleopatra's sloop divinely rigged 
Against the one-third owner of the earth. 
The battles met on Cydtrus' swelling waters, 
Marc Antony assailed the Amazon, 
Boarded her vessel, looked upon his foe — 
And fell. See, where the deck is super-roofed 
With tasseled canopy and silken curtain 
To gainsay entrance to Apollo's eye, 
There did Antonius offer up a crown 
On Venus' altar : there his empire melts. 



24 m BHTME AND TIME. 

On cushions and on skins of lionesses 

He lies o'er whelmed with Egypt's amorous 

queen ; 
And what keen steel, plots and advantages, 
Rome's surfeit and starvation on the Alps 
Could never scratch, lies here unmanned and 

drowned 
In a stagnant pool. Rome's mightiest reveler 
Is here outwassailed, and the glorious trunk 
That rose in battle like a second Mars 
Now tumbles on an Alexandrian couch, 
Whose rare calidity and orient breath 
Makes death demandable. — But reasoning Rome 
Can never wear the Eastern manacles, 
And therefore breeds a worthier, wiser son, 
Octavius Caesar. All the winds of the South 
Exhale their soft indulgencies in vain 
On rigid Caesar. Rome's triumvirate crown 
He'll beat to a single circle wide as the earth, 
And wear 't alone. 



XX. 



Now lapse a thousand years. On Saxon soil 
These nobles played their part. Here comes 

King John, 
Who ruled o'er England hard upon the time 
That Cceur-de-Lion with chivalric arm 
Essayed to wrest the sepulchre of Christ 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 25 

From Saracenic dogs. But this King John, 
Who held his sceptre by the nation's choice, 
A charter loftier than a lineal throne, 
Grew much unworthy: for he killed Prince 

Arthur, 
The lineal heir, deeming him dangerous, 
Albeit himself sat on high England's throne, 
A people-chosen monarch. So he drops 
In the shears of contradiction. Note, I pray, 
Yon clean-faced man. Him the Pope Innocent 
Employed as legate from the see of Rome 
To toy and tool with kingdoms. For it chanced 
That in those days our mother church waxed 

warm 
With secular affection, and her love 
To compass worldly passion, stripped her body 
Of the celestial robes. Now fortune's winds 
Will blow her round and round, and she must 

take 
Her chances with a host of temporal powers, 
Shuffling for good or ill. Following after 
Come Philip, King of France, Louis, the Dau- 
phin, 
And the Archduke of Austria. These attempted 
With their conjointed armies and intrigues 
To fix a foreign foot on Britain's soil, 
A deed incompassable. Here's the man 
Calls conquest folly. That is Faulconbridge, 
The hero national, the lion whelp 
Of lion-hearted Richard. All his life 



26 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

Is life for England. On the chalky cliffs 
That beetle o'er the channel, he will sit 
And roar his warning thunder to the world, 
Beware, for I am England. 



XXL 

Still they come ! 
Another king, another royal troop: 
Richard the Second. Listen to the names 
Of those that follow: Henry Bolingbroke, 
The Duke of Hereford, and Richard's cousin; 
Old John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster; 
The Dukes of Norfolk, Surrey and of York; 
Salisbury, and the Earl Northumberland 
With his son Harry Percy, Hotspur called, 
Whom in the next troop we shall meet again. — 
King Richard, willful and extravagant, 
Reigned without scruple ; ignorant of the fact, 
That any man to be a nation's king 
Must be the nation's servant. High aud low 
He tyrannized and trampled; robbed the people, 
And levied on the lands and movables 
Of the nobility. He banished Hereford, 
And went a-rompiug on an Irish war. 
But mark the harvest: Henry Bolingbroke, 
Allied with other nobles wronged by Richard, 
Returns to England, lands at Ravensburg 
In Gloucestershire, and wheresoe'er he goes 



SHAKE SPE ABE'S BIRTHDAY. 27 

The people chip him. Henry's rising star 
Mounts high in England's heaven. Troop on 

troop 
Flocks to his banner, and all hail him king. 
The wily and far-reaching politician 
Knew how to win men's hearts. Then poor 

King Richard 
By all forsaken, yields his royalty, 
And Bolingbroke is crowned King Henry Fourth. 
In Pom fret Castle Richard met his end 
At hands directed by his cousin king. — 
No doubt, his faults were great ones and were 

many ; 
Still, we do love the lone-in-prison monarch 
When like a caged bird he sings of death: 
Our motion weakens, and our phantasy 
Dwells in the gloomy tower there with Richard 
Chanting of dirges with the poet king. 

XXII. 

Give me a cup of sack ! O star of Eastcheap, 
Rise once again and let thy twinkling eye 
Spark merrily, for the prosaic world 
Burns smoky-wet. This is, indeed our Jack, 
Our monster Jack, our Jack of jest and 3wagger, 
Our drinking, laughing, lying, plump old Jack, 
With whom to spend a day is worth a year. 
The rogues of Gadshill and the Boarsbead 
tavern, 



28 m BBJME AND TIME. 

Like satellites encircling their sun, 
Attend on Falstaff. There's the bombast Pistol, 
Hack, whack and crack. Peto and Poins, I spy. 
That's Bardolph, with the jack-o'-lantern nose; 
And yon fair stripling prodding Falstaff 's ribs 
Is Harry Monmouth, Prince of Wales, hereafter 
Wielding the scepter as King Henry Fifth. 
But while he swims with these unsavory fish 
We call him Hal. Sir John delights the prince, 
And Hal adores the man in whose construction 
The beastliest belly and the rarest wit 
Crossed like the web the woof. And but that 

we 
Must see the rest, we would along with them, 
For, look you, Falstaff 's jelly paunch 'gins 

tremble 
In premonition of a laboring jest. — 
Here come the nobles whose assisting hands 
Holp Bolingbroke to mount the English throne ; 
And now they see his love for them abating 
E'en with his need of them. Hence they con- 
spire 
To pluck the upstart down; but Henry's power, 
Which lives encysted in the hearts o' the people 
Bears down the rebels. — On a field of Mars, 
Near Shrewsbury, the fiery Hotspur met 
With Henry Monmouth. From the London 

slums 
This young Apollo mounts the vaulted sky, 
Straining for Percy's star. The battles meet, 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 29 

And lo ! the meteor flashes into night, 
Eclipsed by Henry's sun. 



XXIII. 

Our Jack appears once more, our only Jack, 
Our prince of jest and frolic. What's the 

matter, 
That with a mien discomfited and sad 
He sneaks apart, the butt of all men's laughter? 
He needed money, man ; and on the way 
His carnal appetite o'ertook his wit. 
And now such ordinary men as Page 
And Ford, at Windsor with their merry wives 
With safe impunity make sport of him, 
Who, ere he fell, defied the entire world 
To engage with him in the tilting-yard of wit, 
And there cross arms. 



XXIV. 

Now comes the time when Henry crowned the 

Fifth 
Contemplates what to do. From the high seat 
Where fortune and his merit have upreared him 
He casts his kingly eye o'er his possessions, 
And wheresoever he looks, he looks on peace. 
Rebellion is put down, and fruitful labor, 
Which maketh one man's gain another's profit, 



30 m BHYME AND TIME. 

Breeds amity in all. The soldier only 

Bewails his occupation, and with Henry 

Yawns at the idle years. — Whene'er the strong 

Seek quarrel with the weak, 'tis never long 

Before some friend pricked by ulterior aims 

Shows facile ground; as in the present case 

The Archbishop of Canterbury shows 

To eager Henry. "France, my liege, is yours, 

And by the true law of inheritance 

Your head should wear it's crown." The wily 

prelate, 
Like tempting Satan with our mother Eve, 
Pours his persuasion into willing ears; 
For Henry answers, " If then France be ours, 
We owe it both to heaven and our honor 
To bend or break it." — Look, there comes the 

king 
From Harfleur with all England at his heels, 
Flouting the French air with his British flags. 
Behold the wildering maze of pike and lance, 
Which like a forest looms upon our sight ; 
Behold the archers and artillery, 
The serried footmen and the myriad horse 
Beating their martial rhythm on the soil 
Of trembling France. The mighty mass moves 

on, 
Shaking the air as when a hurricane 
Moans in the distant wood. Scabbard and steel, 
Helmet, plate, armor, and habiliments 
And creaking saddles shuffle in the press 



SHAKE SPE ABE'S BIBTHDAY. 31 

That sweeps on Agincourt. — King Henry con- 
quers, 
And while he lives, like to a second giant 
Of Khodus' fame, he plants one foot in England, 
And wears the other on the neck of France. 



XXV. 

If sons are punished for their father's guilt, 

See, how the wheeling Nemesis alights 

On infant Henry's head, Henry the Sixth. 

And now the day of glory sinks in night, 

The pride of conquest into sad defeat; 

What Henry stole, from Henry shall be stolen, 

And lawless gain shall be a lawful loss. 

So retribution sings and sweeps adown 

To pack the deeds of men upon their back. — 

The maid of Orleans with the aid of heaven 

Slips England's yoke from the fair neck of 

France, 
Discomfiting the Britains ; who now home, 
Begin to quarrel on whose fault it was 
That France escaped them. In the Temple 

Garden 
The hot nobility of England splits 
In rival faction. York and Lancaster 
Assumed the white and red rose as an emblem, 
When quickly all the park was stripped of roses 
Arrayed in colory difference on the front 



32 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

Of spleeny partisans. — For twenty years 
These fiends incarnate butchered one another 
Decked in the signs of love and innocence, 
The symbols that God's blessed angels wear, 
Roses of white and red. — These are not men 
That pass us by, but the unbodied wraiths 
Of those who fell upon a hundred fields, 
Were stabbed in prison, strangled in their beds, 
Drowned, poisoned or secreted unto death 
In hungry cells. How like a phantom flight 
Of paly ghosts they seem. Hover away, 
Weird apparition ! Though dame History 
Remembers many of these wounded spirits, 
Let us not name them ; only, pray you, mark 
Yon crookback fellow perched upon his charger 
Like a mal-shapen ape. That's Richard Gloster, 
Whose blast infernal swept the blushing rose 
Of Henry's faction to the scattering wind; 
Which done, this hell-worm clapped his venom 

teeth 
Into the petals of the milk-white rose, 
The rose of York, the much abused symbol 
Of his own house — but we anticipate 
Events yet unaccrued. 

XXVI. 

Oft in a wet-warm summer you have seen 
Some garden smothered in obnoxious weeds 
Ugly to sight and smell. Anon a gardener 



SHAKESPEARE' 8 BIRTHDAY. 33 

Enters the gate, a weed hook in his hand, 

To extirpate the rank offensive weeds 

That grew sans invitation. Eagerly 

He plucks and pulls and spares no gross usurper, 

Albeit some tender flowret, too, must perish 

For having twined its rootlets all too near 

Some noisome creature that is doomed for good. 

So ever even justice 'gins to work 

In England's garden. — Richard is her tool, 

Who pricked with sharp ambition for the crown 

'Complished her purpose well. Look, where he 

comes, 
The dark, unconscious minister of fate, 
And 'hind him all the harvest of his edge, 
Cropped, as he wist it, in his own behalf. 
There goes King Henry, of his name the sixth, 
And his son Edward, both by Gloster slain, 
In London Tower and at Tewksbury. 
Next follow Edward Fourth and perjured 

Clarence, 
Brothers and obstacles to rising Richard; 
And next the lords of Rivers, Vaughan, Grey, 
Who fell in Pomfret Castle. Yon is Hastings, 
Who jubilating o'er his rivals' end, 
Little expected that the lord protector 
Would this day swear by Paul, he'd never eat 
Till Hastings' head were off. That's Bucking- 
ham, 
A villain, but not deeply died enough 
To please the bloody Richard. So, in time, 



34 in RHYME AND TIME. 

He too is tumbled. See, the women there ;. 
York's aged duchess, type of tragic woe, 
For she is Richard's mother, and men call her 
The devil's dam. Peer closely in the press, 
And you will see three bands of glittering gold 
Circling the foreheads of three widowed queens: 
Of Margaret, Elizabeth and Anne, 
The one-time wives of Henry and two Edwards. — 
O England, droop not, bear thee bravely up: 
The day will come, albeit the night is long. 
E'en now I see a glimmering in the South, 
Where Richmond, hovering o'er the sea from 

France, 
Breaks like the dawn on Britain's tearful gloom. 
Come now to Bos worth, once more let us look 
Upon the fiend there writhing in the hell 
Of his own conscience. See him toss and groan 
In frightful slumber, leaping out of bed, 
Trembling with icy drops upon his brow, 
Crying, Have mercy, Jesu. — Even then 
The man who said, I am myself alone, 
Was overcome by seeing what he was. — 
His body fell on Bosworth bloody field, 
But Richard never was himself again 
After he saw his image in the glass 
Of that horrific dream. 



SHAKE SPE ABE'S BIRTHDAY. 35 



XXVII. 

The last we shall behold of England's kings, 
Henry the Eighth: gross and libidinous, 
Devoid of honor and replete in senses, 
A six-wived monster. Still the wise Creator 
Wrought nought for nothing. And, indeed, this 

Henry, 
Like to Mephisto in the Goethean Faust, 
Ruled over men as portion of that power 
Which always wills the bad but works the good. 
Small care had he that men should be enlight- 
ened, 
And yet he trimmed the lamp of Reformation 
With much success. He wived not with Ann 

Boleyn 
Because his conscience flamed for her religion 
With warmer zeal than for the Roman faith 
Of Catholic Katherine ; and yet, 'twas he 
By whose device a most illustrious queen 
Cried mother to Ann Boleyn. 'Twas not love 
For Thomas Cranmer as a Lutheran 
That made him Archbishop of Canterbury, 
But rather for he holp his giddy king 
To biouse in greener pasture. That is Cranmer 
With whom the king there whispers as they walk; 
A learned man and wise, whose aim in life 
Was ever to do well. Two women follow 
The queens of Henry, Katherine and Anne. 



36 in BHTME AND TIME. 

See, what a tale of woe and misery 

Misfortune wrote upon the pale complexion 

Of Katherine's cheek. She was a loyal queen, 

A wife most patient, and a woman gifted 

With a degree of gentle dignity, 

As leaves us ever in a pleasing doubt 

Twixt love and admiration. For Anne Boleyn, 

King Henry said, " She is a dainty one," 

And so you see she is. But trust not beauty: 

It raised Anne Boleyn to the bed of England, 

And from that dizzy steep it cast her stumbling 

Down to the headsman's block. — Look, there is 

Wolsey, 
The crafty prelate, Lord High Chancellor 
And Cardinal of York. He looked towards 

Koine, 
And in his mighty greed malfeased the trust 
Of double office to unholy uses. 
But Wolsey never sat in Peter's chair; 
He fell dishonored, and in Leicester Abbey 
He penitently died. The nation prospered, 
And from the life of this ambitious man, 
Doubled by church and state, she made con- 
clusion, 
That never hence a cardinal should be 
Prime minister of England. 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 37 



XXVIII. 

The quarried monument whose sepulchre 
Immures the ancient dust of Capulet, 
Now yields his treasure; and the ponderous gates 
Yawn on their sleepy and slow moving hinges, 
That Juliet and her Romeo may come forth 
To grace our triumph. We may truly call 
These lovers wretched, for an adverse fate 
Denied to them their one and single joy. 
But who is happy, if it be not they 
That feed upon a passion, which omitted 
Makes life and the whole earth to live it in 
A thing detested ? Never did grim death 
Accept an invitation that was tendered 
So cheerfully as this. — Verona's night 
No longer burns these torches in her brow; 
The stars are fallen and their fire quenched. 



XXIX. 

Robed in silks 
Of primal hue, in raiment all bedashed 
With emerald and far-gleaming chrysolite, 
Behold, the Moor of Venice, black Othello, 
The valiant savior of the watery town. 
What can the state deny to him that saves it? 
Therefore the duke and summoned dignitaries, 
To grace their warrior, needs must sanctify 



38 AV BHYME AND TIME. 

His dusky marriage to the whitest dove 
That flutters in all Venice. Confidently 
The timid bird aspires to mate the eagle 
Who soars pre-eminent above all men 
Of her complexion; and she loves the hero, 
Although a sooty bosom hides his heart. 
But nature, for some reason wise or foolish, 
Sets down prescription: to maintain the race 
She immolates the individual, 
That leaps beyond the barrier. Desdeinona 
Offends the ethics of morality, 
Assaults the family, hence the family's honor 
Justly demands her death. Inferior things 
Trust not the finer that descend to them ; 
Hence the world-spirit brings Iago forth 
(A lesser wit had served the cause as well) 
To inoculate the inexperienced Moor 
With jealousy. How could Othello trust, 
When Desdemona's honor to her husband 
Dishonored her? 

XXX. 

King Lear, Cordelia, Regan, Goneril, 

Kent, Gloster, Edmund, Edgar and the Fool. 

If ever vice and virtue measured arms, 

If ever man was overcome with error, 

If ever evil came to evil end 

And merit ever made its owner happy, — 

Then look on these. Observe the human act 



SHAKE SPE ABE'S BIRTHDAY. 39 

Seeking its proper level in the scales 
Of divine compensation. Doting Lear, 
The monarch absolute whose law is will, 
And will, caprice, strips his authority, 
Spurns the one prop whereon his title rests, 
And wonders why he falls. There comes Cor- 
delia : 
In proud humility she frets her father, 
Accepts her banishment, and linked with France 
Sesks to restore her father. To which end 
She leads an alien army o'er the channel 
Against the British state. Cordelia dies. 
Goneril and Regan plot against their father, 
Against their husbands next, and true to nature, 
Devour each other. Gloster slipped in wedlock, 
And as the wheel goes round, the bastard worm 
Bites the offending parent. Edmund Gloster 
Wreaks woeful vengeance on the institution 
That cast him out. He smites the family, 
Until his deeds of darkness come to light — 
Then smites himself. — King Lear's capricious 

rule 
Breeds baneful vapors in the British court : 
The sultry air stifles the breath of man, 
Till passion bursts the ponderous atmosphere 
With deafening thunder. Curses cry to heaven, 
And retribution shrieks. Fate's fiery bolt 
Rives top to bottom, singeing high and low. 
And when the purged air is sweet and wholesome, 
Behold, we see the Fool and Kent and Edgar, 



40 IK BHTME AND TIME. 

Wisdom and charity and innocence, 
Survive the tempest of contending ills ; 
Their qualities are blessed. 



XXXI. 

In rugged Scotland, Duncan's feeble rule 
Fostered sedition, and his impotence 
Invoked the Norse and Dane to land their powers 
In quest of spoil and venture. Not so fast. 
Here comes a subject mightier than his king, 
Macbeth, puissant. Neither foe nor rebel 
Can grow in Scotland while great Glamis' arm 
Strikes for his country. On the western coast 
He quells MacDonald and his lawless band . 
Of Kernes and Gallowglasses ; in the East 
He whips the invaders from the shores of Fife 
With sword invincible. The battles won, 
Our conquering hero turns his horse's head 
Towards Inverness. Alas, that it should be, 
But thus it is, success begets temptation. 
And so the while his fiery mettled steed 
Paces o'er moor and fen and Scottish heath, 
Macbeth in salient rumination wrapt 
Sees the weird sisters, whose prophetic crown 
Gleams in his fevery vision like the star 
That shone o'er Bethlehem. He gallops home, 
And when the wedded partner of his bosom 
Throbbed in his arms, he felt ambition's flames 



SHAKE 8PE ABE'S BIB TED AY. 41 

Raging in her heart, too. — The deed is done — 
Duncan is slain. Now, Macbeth, kill thyself, 
For both ways thou must die. If thou art traitor, 
Then rip thy bowels with the self-same steel 
That minced Mac Donald : if thou art a king, 
Then plunge the sleeping dagger in thy breast 
That stabbed King Duncan. Thou hast cast thy 

life 
Between the opposing millstones of thy acts, 
No god can save thee. — Hecate now appears 
Soothing his terror with security. 
The foul witch lies; but that's the good of evil, 
And therefore still the devil holds his office, 
To pinch the proselyte whom first he tempts. 



XXXII. 

These are the actors from the tragic scene 
That played in Elsinore. The moody prince, 
Within whose gentle bosom thought and deed, 
Dwelt like two strangers. Next the bloody 

uncle 
And the salacious queen, who can not pray, 
Because they still persist to feed upon 
The fruits of their offense. Yon ancient man, 
Who talks and talks and talks, that is Polonius, 
An over-anxious creature of the king, 
Whose cunning ran to seed. Behind him follow 
More of the ilk would pit their nut-shell brain 



42 IN EHTME AND TIME. 

'Gainst Hamlet's intellect. They might as well 

Bail the salt ocean with their hollow hand. 

The mice would play with the cat; pray, mark 

the sport, 
For since the day intriguery began 
Was never knave so lamentably beaten, 
As these, our Rosencrantz and Guildeustern. — 
There goes Laertes eager to avenge 
His father's murder. To his hasty arm 
The frail Ophelia clings. She loved Prince Ham- 
let, 
And truly he loved her. But she was weak : 
Her all mistrusting father, and her brother, 
With lung3 still reeking with the fumes of Paris, 
Made her believe, that Hamlet's protestations 
Were but the hot and hungry ministers 
Of fleshly appetite. — But Hamlet, Hamlet, 
What shall we say of thee? Not one of us 
But wears an umbrage of thy life's collision 
In his own bosom. By the grace of God, 
We share with Him the faculty of reason, 
And rise exalted o'er creation else, 
To be his image. But this godlike reason 
So trembles twixt intelligence and will, 
That oft we lose our balance. — Think and do, 
Sums all philosophy. Now, as to Hamlet, 
His deeds were still-born, strangled in their birth 
By infinite conjecture, speculation, 
And spinning out of possibilities, 
What might befall if this or that were done, 



SHAKESPEARE'S BIRTHDAY. 43 

And so the end is nothing. Circumstances, 
He lacks the will to shape, now shape his ends, 
And then he throws intelligence aside, 
And swears by fate: " The providence is all, 
What comes will come," and so he runs to death 
With eyes wide open. First he thinks and acts 

not, 
And then he acts and thinks not. Hark, a drum ! 
Young Fortinbras, a man of head and hand, 
Is come to rule in Denmark. Hamlet died, 
But his Horatio lived to tell the story, 
Reporting Hamlet and his cause aright 
To the unsatisfied. 



POEMS. 



(45) 



A Wanderer. 

Over the land I pass, 

Over the sea, 
Roaming about, about, 

Aimlessly. 

All the wide North and South, 

East and the West, 
Equally furnish me 

Room for my rest. 

One time there was spot, 

Dearer to me 
Than all the earth beside 

Ever can be. 

Life is a mystic thing; 

Fire and frost: 
Love is so easily won, 

Easily lost. 

(47) 



48 in BHYME AND TIME. 

Over the land I pass, 

Over the sea, 
Roaming about, about, 

Aimlessly. 

Into the gates of Rome, 
Listless I drift ; 

Into the gloomy past, 
Shadows to lift. 

Over the forum there 
Glances the moon ; 

Images rise around, 
But, ah, too soon 

Voices and feet I hear 
Passing near by : 

Others have come to see, 
Even as I. 

Jolly good folk are they, 
Hear, how they laugh ; 

Here on an age's tomb 
Merrily chaff. 

Wondrous coincidence ! 

Moon, disappear ! 
Now I am recognized, 

Now she is here. 



POEMS. 49 

Lightly she speaks to me — 

Angel of hell — 
" How do you do, my friend?" 

Thank you, well, well. 



My Choice. 

If I could choose, I would not be 

A soldier who o'er land and sea 

Bears high command, whose simple breath 

Brings unto hundreds life and death. 

If I could choose, I would not be 
A statesman, though of high degree ; 
For rarely can the people know 
If your design be high or low. 

If I could choose, I would not be 
A connoisseur whose eulogy 
Flows like his wine with fowl and fish; 
As if the world swam in his dish. 

If I could choose, I would not be 
An upper-tendom votary, 
To lounge in silk with painted faces 
And shallow skulls in fashion's places. 

If I could choose, I would not be 
A rich man, for it seems to me 
4 



50 zzy BHTME AND TIME. 

A fellow were a foolish lout 
To carry in and carry out. 

If I could choose, then it should be 
A little cottage by the sea, 
Or by the lake, or laughiug brook, 
But it should be a quiet nook. 

Far from the city it should be, 
With hills and hollow, wood and lea ; 
And twenty acres should be found 
For tillage and for pasture ground. 

And in my little home need be 

No bric-a-brac, no tapestry, 

No plated stove, uo bronzed clocks, 

Nor marble basius with silvered cocks. 

But in this home of mine should be 
Besides things of necessity, 
Some twenty books, some tools to write, 
And logs to burn in winter night. 

Man's wish is boundless, but you see 
With me 'tis all reality: 
The field, the farm, the wood, the brook. 
The house, the chimney and the book. 

The reason why all things to me 
Have come so bountiful and free, 



POEMS. 51 

Is built upon the simple plan 
To merely wish for what I can. 

Now let us in, and you shall see 
The spirit that attends on me; 
The nimble fingers, lips and laugh, 
That double all by claiming half. 



Her Birthday. 
(December 31st.) 

" The end shall crown the rest," said Father 

Time, 
But how excel the joy which every day 
Of the now closing year stands blessed withal? 
One circle of the sun alone remained, 
When Kronos whispered into Cupid's ear : 
" Grapple thy wings, sweet Cupid, fly apace 
O'er sun and moon to every bright-eyed star, 
And whatsoever fairest meets thine eye, 
Bring it to yonder little darkling spot 
That man inhabits." — Cupid, in a flash, 
Clapped bow and quiver on his dimpled shoulder, 
Slipped from Olympus, swept the universe — 
And ere the day had ended thou wert born. — 
And now, methinks, I see a long procession 
Of spring and summer and of autumn days 
With envious eye look on their wintry sister, 
The last and youngest daughter of the year, 



52 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

Who wears so bright a jewel. Is it strange, 
The next day should begin another year? 
What could the old do more ? 



My Dream and Helen's. 

After the noon of a summer day 
While in a drowsy hammock I lay, 
Reason took leave, and fancy took wing, 
With franchise becoming a heavenly thing. 

Sultry the air, and its thermal stream 
Lazily sighed in a tropical gleam, 
Whelmed me so willingly, more and more, 
Waved me and washed me on dreamland's shore, 

There in a fairyland wondrous cool, 
Roving in moonlight by placid pool, 
Helen I met, for the dream-god's play 
Laughs at the trammels of earth and day. 

Washed in the beams of the watery star 
Helen is pale, and her beauty at war : 
Forehead and cheek in their wan fellowship 
Challenge the flush of her scarlet lip. 

Helen and I own but half a heart, 
Which the nice world keeps forever apart. 
Here we are free: 'tis no earthly harm, 
But heaven's delight to link arm in arm. 






POEMS. 53 

Silent are we, and silent the wood, 
Silence the language so well understood : 
Softly we loiter by rill and well, 
Pine needle forest and mossy dell. 

Never in life were the forests so green ; 
Never in life were such landscapes seen: 
Castles of marble with turrets of gold, 
Gardens and fountains and statues untold. 

Helen is mine, for her melting eye 
Grants me the prayer which the gods would deny : 
Here I may revel in rapturous bliss, 
Drinking the fire of Helen's kiss. — 



What ! have really I been sleeping? 
Six o'clock ! I shall be late ; 
Five o'clock 's the time appointed, 
And by this, I know they wait. 

See, we have a class in Homer; 
Once a week we join to read 
Homer's wars and Homer's legend, 
Singing of the mighty deed. 

And to-day I would not miss it, 
Helen is our gentle host ; 
Whence with several bright companions 
We embark for Ilium's coast. 






54 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

So with drops of cooling water 
I dispel my summer dream ; 
Put my Homer in my pocket, 
Hie me quickly to the scene. 

But the bard is dull this evening, 
Wise Athene veils her look; 
And the lesson hurried over, 
I am glad to close the book. 

Ask me not why Hector perished, 
Why Ulysses doubts and seems : 
Let us change the subject-matter, 
Tell me, what you think of dreams? 

Dreams are nonsense, Helen answers; 
I detest the shadowy crew: 
I have dreamt as clear as noonday 
What I know was never true. 

So have I — the words escape me 
Much too slowly, much too soon ; 
For her cheek assumed the pallor 
Which it wore this afternoon. 



Which ? 

Shall it be eyes in eyes, or lips on lips? 
I cannot tell which were the greater bliss; 
Therefore your eyes shall be my volume's pages, 
And for the period, lips shall print a kiss. 



POEMS. 55 



Too Late. 



My neighbor's garden yonder 
Is rich beyond compare, 

For in it blooms a flower, 
A sweet rose, passing fair. 

It grew not there by nature ; 

A little year ago 
I saw it in the meadow, 

Where myriad blossoms blow. 

And often, just for pastime, 
I strolled across the lane ; 

The rose was glad to see me, 
And I went on again. 

My neighbor, worldly wiser, 

He boldly dug it out 
And set it in his garden, 

With hedges round about. 

I, too, had leave to take it, 
And own it if I chose : 

I never knew how sorely 

My life would miss this rose. 

And daily now I wander 
Before my neighbor's gate, 



56 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

And look upon the treasure 
Which I esteemed too late. 

The southwind gently whispers : 
I drink the fragrant breath, 

Which might have been my heaven, 
And now is almost death. 

She knows her tardy lover, 
She turns and smiles on me ; 

And in her blushing countenance 
A touch of pain I see. 



The Children's Ball. 

Music peals and laughter mingles, 
Silks and satin float before ; 

Gentle men and gentle women 
Here are met on fashion's floor. 

What a merry, noisy bustle 
Fills the bright illumined hall ; 

Bells and beaux of tiny stature, 
For to-night is children's ball. 

In the maze of little dancers 
One wee maiden holds my eye, 

Mouth and nose and step and gesture 
Irony of fate, oh why ! 






POEMS. 57 

Well I know that where the lamb is 

I shall also find the ewe, 
So I walk through arch and gallery — 

There she is, her husband, too. 

*' Glad to see you well," he greets me, 
" Just the man I'm looking for; 

Entertain my wife, old fellow, 
There's a friend out at the door." 

Grow we all so dull indifferent? 

Off he goes, and now are we, 
She and I alone, together, 

Left each other's company. 

Think not, that such fair occasion 

Could our ancient fire renew : 
We are gentle folk and therefore 

All extravagance eschew. 

Nay, we criticised the people, 

Cut of beard, and cut of gown, 
Politics and education, 

And the topics of the town. 

On the weather we commented, 
Summer's heat and winter's cold, 

That the ball was well attended, 
And enjoyed by young and old. 



58 IN BRYME AND TIME. 

As we looked at one another, 

Was it sinful, that within 
Fancy built a fairy palace 

In the realm of might have been ? 

Conversation, filmy nothing, 

Faded into silent thought; 
Thoughts of many a dear encounter 

By our heart's deep passion wrought. 

There the hand and there the fingers 

That so often crept in mine, 
Interlacing and caressing, 

Hungry with the flame divine. 

There the lips, my lips she called them 
Once — but see, her fringed lid 

Opens wide, our eyes have entered, 
And the tears start forth unhid. 

And we do not wish to check them, 
Sorrow, too, may claim aright, 

But the place — a quivering whisper, 

" Fare thee well, good night, good night !" 

Music peals and laughter mingles, 

Silks and satin float before; 
And the world runs on forever, 

And a voice cries, weep no more. 



POEMS. 59 



My Rose. 

What strange emotion racks my breast? 

Why do I shun the sight 
Of city, country, friend and book? 

Why do I shun the light ? 

I saw my rose, my rose, to-night, 

The rose of my summer day ; 
I had not seen her, oh so long, 

And summer had flown away. 

In the pride of her youth my rose was plucked, 

Plucked for a bride to be, 
Plucked by the hand of a good, brave man, 

Pity, oh, pity me ! 

I tried to forget and I had forgot 

Our passion and our glee : 
I had forgot how I loved this rose, 

Forgot how the rose loved me. 

I saw my rose again to-night, 

She said — I do not know — 
But on her lips and eyes I traced 

Memories of long ago. 

And now the storm wells up anew, 
The tempest rives my soul, 



60 in EHYME AND TIME. 

I lock me in my lonely cell, 
And from the distant goal 

My summer rose, my summer love, 

My rose of halcyon May, 
Blooms forth afresh, uncharms the spell 

The past becomes to-day. 

I clasp her to my yearning heart, 

The body and the soul : 
Oh, I could weep my spirit out! 

All, nothing, severed, whole ! 

I press my head in the pillowed down, 

I shroud me in my sheet : 
The spell will pass ; aye, so will I; 

Could we but passing meet. 



Defiance. 

This little life of ours 
Lives like a spark, 

Flashes ephemeral, 
Sinks in the dark. 

Brief is the passionate 
Love in our breast ; 

Death makes an end of it, 
Puts it to rest. 



POEMS. 61 

Soon shall thy raven locks, 

Forehead of snow, 
-Cheeks of the rose's blush, 

Yield to the foe. 

Soon shall thy bosom deep 

Kise not nor fall : 
Cold, all its fire quenched, 

Motionless all. 

Soon thy warm crimson lip 

Breathing desire, 
Soon shall thy gleaming eye 

Flashing love's fire, 

Deep in the earth be laid, 

There to decay, 
Into the elements 

Passing away. 

Had we but met in time 

All had been well ; 
Now a mere whim of chance 

Dooms us to hell. 

Conscience, we challenge thee, 

Conscience, we dare ! 
Man's poor formalities 

Vanish in air. 



62 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

Mortals may promise, but 
Fate rules the man, 

And irresistibly 
Forces her plan. 

Now is eternity, 
Future and Past : 

Living, we live but once, 
Nothing can last. 

Now is love's only time, 
Now we are here. 

Why do we hesitate ? 
What do we fear? 

Let me encompass thee, 
Moment of bliss; 

Let me thus clasping thee 
Die with a kiss ! 

Die with my lips on thine, 
Drinking thy breath ! 

Moment of ecstacy ! 
Welcome, O death ! 



POEMS. 63 



Resignation. 



Though thine eyes' mystery 

Softly assures, 
Telling me, yieldingly, 

Take me, I'm yours : 

Though thy warm clinging hand 

Thrills me and tells, 
Love's eager willingness 

Rises and swells, 

Throbs in my arteries, 

Pulses divine ! 
Ecstacy infinite ! 

Take me, I'm thine : 

Though from thy parted lips 

Amorous breath 
Fans my ambition, till 

Fearless of death : 

Though from thy lips I drink 

Kisses like wine, 
Kisses, that pray to me, 

Come and be mine: 

Still I must banish thee, 
Helen, adieu ! 



64 IN RHYME AND TIME, 

Love must be sacrificed, 
Life must be true ; 



True to the vows we made. 

Cursed the fate, 
That our stars' orbits cross 

Useless, too late! 

Resolute, resolute, 

Helen, farewell! 
Far, in the realm beyond 

All will be well. 

There without fear or shame, 

Passionate, warm, 
Lie everlastingly 

Locked in my arm. 



In Love's Remembrance. 

The village sleeps, the time is night, 

The belfry's tongue tells one, two, three 

There is no moon, and the wintry wind 
Hangs frozen crystals on bush and tree. 

But look, a light is burning still 
In yonder window near the roof. 

It is our ancient pedagogue 

Searching the past for light and proof. 



POEMS. 65 

He is a bookworm, verily, 

This gray, lean, spectacled old man, 
Mousing in parchment and musty page, 

Forgetting life is but a span. 

He climbs upon his creaky stool, 

And tugs at a book high up on the wall ; 

It tumbles in a cloud of dust, 

And from its leaves what treasures fall ! 

The old man stoops and gathers all 

In his withered hand. His back is old, 

And rising, aches ; he hobbles on, 
And sits, his finding to unfold: — 

Brittle leaves, a wilted rose-bud, 

Clover from a lucky spot, 
And a faded silken ribbon 

With the words, forget-me-not. 

Handkerchief, embroidered deftly 

With a magic monogram ; 
Glove, by dance and moonlight stolen. 

Souls that in Elysium swam ! 

And a ringlet, sunny golden, 

Folded in a tinted sheet, 
With a message, hundred kisses, 

Yes, to-night — but be discreet. 
5 



66 IN RHYME AND TIME. 

Morpheus comes and stoops the lover 
On his treasures, soft and low, 

While his fine remembrance revels 
In the dreams of long ago. 



The light still burns, albeit the sun 
Illumines shelves and books and bed. 

A smile plays on the schoolman's lip ; 
The schoolman — he is dead. 



To Shakespeare. 

Henry and Hamlet, 

Born by chance, 
Were raised to fame 

On Shakespeare's lance. 

Supreme creator, 

Who of man, 
Save our Redeemer 

Leads thy van : 

The woe and weal 
Of great and small 

Responded to 

Thy magic call. — 

I learned to love, 
When vet a child, 



POEMS. 67 



Thy wondrous music 
Fierce and mild : 

With growing years, 

I 'gan to see 
The truth of thy 

Philosophy. 

Thy clarion voice 

Kings from the goal, 
Starting an echo 

In my soul ; 

And now I prattle 
Of king and clown, 

Of earth and heaven, 
Up and down. 

My truest notes 

I owe to thee ; 
The false to my 

Infirmity. 



Daphne's Song. 
(From Telemachus.) 

There was a great city beyond a great sea 

Famous in war and in glory ; 
Priam was king, and a son had he, 



68 m BRYME AND TIME. 

As gay and as gallant as any could be : 
Paris, the prince of my story. 

But Paris and prudence went ever astray, 

Cupid alone was his master: 
He journeyed from Ilium to Sparta one day, 
And stole Menelaus' fair Helen away, 

Heedless of any disaster. 



No sooner had Paris with Helen set sail, 

Helen, the pride of her nation, 
Than each mighty monarch put on his mail, 
At Aulis they gathered in spite of a gale, 

Aulis, the ultimate station. 

Nine winters and summers they battled in vain 

Wasting the fields of Scamander ; 
A thousand brave heroes and horsemen were slain, 
But none could the beautiful Helen regain. 

Tell me, was none to unhand her? 

• 

O yes, little Ithaca, isle of the sea, 

Hail to Ulysses' endeavor: 
He captured the city and set Helen free, 
A master of mighty invention was he. 

Praise him for aye and forever. 



POEMS. 69 

Kate's Song. 
(From Sibyl.) 

Summer ties his bundle up, 

He is doomed to wander ; 
Balmy days and moonlit night 
Packs he in his bundle tight, 

He will nothing squander. 

Pansy and forget-me-not, 

Pink and rose and myrtle, 
Bob-o'-hnk and whip-poor-will, 
Fly with him o'er wood aud hill. 

Hear the north-wind hurtle ! 

Lusty winter, clad in white, 

Captures field and city: 
At the window snow and sleet ; 
Down the chimney, in the street, 

Listen to his ditty. 

Wool and fur shall keep us warm, 

Cheery glows the fire; 
And the singing kettle blows 
Steam from out his iron nose — 

Pussy joins the choir. 

Bring the fife and violin, 
Trip a dancing measure. 



70 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

William, William, you may croak, 
But to us, a jolly folk, 
Life is full of pleasure. 

Summer, summer, fare thee well, 

Come again to-morrow. 
Winter, winter, every year 
You shall find a welcome here. 
Banish pain and sorrow. 



Nil. 



Man sees his aim, and mostly 'tis a good one; 
But it lies anchored in a far, far sea. 
He plunges in, divides the angry billows, 
But while he nobly struggles on his way, 
See, how the witching sirens, Love* and Plenty, 
Kiss all the brave ambition from his brow. 
They sing and laugh and creep into his bosom ; 
He dallies with the means, forgoes the end. 



Man. 



Presumptuous man, and why shouldst thou be 

proud? 
Walk to the wood and set thy six small feet 
Against the lofty pine ; or pit thy arms 
Against the foam-capped breakers, when they lash 



POEMS. 71 

The rocky limit of their wide domain, 

And whore art thou? Nor can thy puny voice 

O'ercrow the little spnn from tongue to ear, 

When the great tempest winds his shrilly horn. 

Thy eyes are dull compared to those bright eyes 

That twinkle from the raven brow of night; 

The joy of summer makes thy merriest laugh 

A sickly smile; nor can thy weeping lids 

Prevail against the copious tears of heaven. 

Stoop, mortal, stoop ! you crawl upon the earth 

Ten thousand years ; youdig and build and sweat, 

But all in vain; your proudest monument, 

Set at the base of towering Himalay, 

Shows like a wart. — Be humble, say no-more, 

And walk in lowly silence to thy grave. — 

No, not a wit ! lam the lord of all. 

I tread the earth triumphant under foot, 

For she is mine, my primal heritage. 

Why should I tremble at the elements 

When they are bondmen to my intellect, 

Which holds them as it were in prenticeship 

To serve my uses? When they mutiny, 

I summon one in arms to curb the other. 

My realm is all in all; for earth and fire, 

The wind, the wave, the wood, sun, stars and 

moon 
Must furnish tribute for my benefit. 
The boisterous wind and the big surgy sea 
Propel my ships, — yea, e'en the clamorous light 
That threats destruction from the heart of heaven, 



72 m BHYME AND TIME. 

Awaits my call. More swift than Mercury, 
He flashes up and round the whirling globe, 
My fiery messenger. I have good cause 
To walk erect, and worship none but him 
Who fashioned me, a semblance of himself, 
Creation's miracle. I rule the earth 
By license of divine authority : 
The king of nature, and the son of God. 



Consolation. 

If you are shiftless 

And therefore thriftless, 

You may nevertheless stand high 

In your own esteem — and why? 

You pause? 

Because 

A god holds you down and a god lifts your 

brother ; 
Misfortune is one god and fortune the other. 
You are as able as he and drown, 
For you have no luck : 

Your friend has no merit, but fortune makes him 
Swim like a duck. 



POEMS. 73 



The Sparrows and the Lark. 

Hundreds of quick little sparrows were scratch- 
ing a heap near the barn door, 
Which the good farmer had thrown out of his 

horse's stall. 
Quarrelsome fellows they were, and incessant 

their noise and their flutter; 
Orators every one, — listeners, oh, no, not 

here. 
Soon they discovered a skylark hid in the leaves 

of a myrtle ; 
Cocksparrow bold, with a chirp, hopped on the 

share of a plow. 
Say, you proud songster, come down, and par- 
take of our jollification. 
Why be so lonely and sad? Come, you shall sing 

us a song. 
Ah, my good sparrow, believe me, I like not the 

smell of your dunghill; 
For when 1 sing I must soar swiftly aloft toward 

the sun. 
Here my poor vision is narrow, while high in the 

realm of the ether, 
Mountain and forest and sea calmly repose in my 

eye.— 
What is the good of your song, if no one can 

follow to hear it ? 



74 /AT BHYME AND TIME. 

Surely a song never heard, is but a song never 

sung. — 
Wisely you speak it, O sparrow, and that is the 

key to my sadness : 
Happy indeed were the lark, if all the sparrows 

could fly. 
Still, little practical friend, my song is not 

utterly wasted ; 
The eagle, the clouds and the sun, dwell in the 

reach of my song. 



The Two Pines. 

Here in the forest,. I look on the manifold tribe of 

the pine tree, 
Family large as of man; like and unlike too, as 

well. 
Needles and twigs and a trunk, they possess both 

alone, and in common, 
Merely, they differ in size — stay and consider 

again. 
Here is a wee little fellow, a pigmy, forsooth, of 

the family, 
One you might carry away, plant in a pot like a 

flower. 
Dressed in the color of spring, in the merry 

green garment of nature, 
Smiling he looks on himself, perfect, however so 

small. 



FOEMS. 75 

Why should he dread the loud clamor of light- 
ning and thunder in heaven? 
Why should he fear the great wind sweeping a 

tempest above? 
Elements, battling on high, never tarry to smite 

him with fire, 
And the fierce rush of the wind 3trips not one 

needle from him. 
Strong in his weakness he stands, unknown and 

unknowing he prospers, 
Circles complete as the sun, there on an inch of 

the soil. — 
Yonder, you see, is his brother, a. giant of 

mighty dimensions; 
Grand and majestic he rules, lifting his crown to 

the sun. 
Dreary and dry is his trunk, and there at his foot, 

you may gather 
Infinite needles and twigs, shaken adown by the 

storm. 
Many dead branches are reaching like withered 

arms from his body : 
Once they were lusty and green, now they must 

perish, because 
The hungry head doth absorb all the food that 

the sunlight would give them ; 
Starved and neglected they droop, patiently wait- 
ing to die. 
See, where the woodman is come, the director 

supreme of the forest; 



76 JiV RHYME AND TIME. 

Sharp is the edge of his ax, mighty the strength 

of his arm. 
Thorough the flesh and the bone he smites the 

keen blade of his weapon : 
Hark, how the echo resounds ! Sullen the giant 

endures. 
Now he is struck to the heart ; he shivers, he 

moans and he totters, 
Tumbles, and crashing to earth, thunders aloud 

in his fall. 
Such, O my friend, is his fate: not his life, but 

his death, will contribute 
Rafter and beam to your house, timber and mast 

to your ship. 



Brook and Ocean. 

Why is the ocean so dark, and why is the brook 
so transparent? 

Both are but water, I ween — solve me this rid- 
dle, I pray. 

There in the crystalline current I see to its very 
foundation, 

Castles and turrets I see, shimmering gay in the 
sun. 

Valleys and hillocks of sand may be traced in 
this little creation ; 

Ranges of pebble and stone rise like the Alps to 
my view. 



POEMS. 77 

And forests I see in the brook, for the weeds and 

the flags and the rushes 
Thrive like the mightiest wood. Fishes, I too 

can discern, 
With golden and silvery scales, as they gambol 

and glint in the water, 
Hiding and seeking — who knows? Haply no 

less than ourselves. 
Truly, this magical runnel reveals a whole world 

to my vision : 
Landscape and life I behold, clear and transparent 

and true. 
But when I've gone to the ocean to peer in his 

infinite waters, 
Nothing but darkness I saw. Tell me, oh, tell 

me, why is it? 
Chide not the ocean, my friend, because thy 

ambition was baffled ; 
Blame but the ken of thine eye : thou art too 

feeble to see. 
Dip with a cup from the ocean, and dip with a 

cup from the runnel, 
Here is the great and the small: both will appear 

as of one. 
Thus thou may'st compass the all, by seizing a 

part of it only : 
Set thy dry lips to the brook, seek not to swallow 

the sea. 



78 IN BHYME AND TIME. 



The Devil. 

Tell me, oracular maiden, for why was the devil 

created? 
God is good, and the world sprang from his 

goodness and grace. 
God is almighty as well, and therefore the deeds 

of the devil 
Stand as the deeds of the Lord, done by his 

creature, his will. 
I have been told, he was sent to punish our sins, 

but look you, 
He is the root of that sin, therefore the answer 

falls short. 
I do not speak of the monster with horns and 

hoofs and a pitchfork, 
But of our frailty, our faults; yea, of the devil 

in us. — 
That is the devil, indeed, the spirit of death and 

denial, 
Who with temptation or pain meets us wherever 

we go. 
But if all ills were abolished, then could man no 

longer do evil; 
Then, too, the good of his deed were not his 

freedom, but fate. 
Now, being free he may choose, may become, as 

it were, his owu maker : 



POEMS. 79 

Here is the evil and good, take whichsoever thou 

wilt. 
Life were insipid and dull unless the quick devil 

defied us ; 
Ever must he arise, ever must thou put him 

down. — 
Thank thy Creator, oh man, for thou truly art 

blessed with the devil : 
How couldst thou conquer the fiend, if he had 

never been born? 



Optimism. 

I am a priest of the sun and no sorrow shall cloud 

my good spirits, 
Yet overnight I was cast deep in a visional gloom. 
For in my dream I beheld the pale ghost of 

eternal mutation, 
Ruling within and without, ruling above and 

below. 
Still the rude spectre pursues me, for all I can see 

and can think of 
Shrinks into nothing and fades, touched by his 

wand of decay. 
Nothing endures, and our birth is simply the 

cause of our burial ; 
Every thing that exists tells us, it shall not exist. 
Kingdoms and peoples have perished, the uni- 
verse ever is changing, 



80 /AT BHYME AND TIME. 

Arts and philosophies, too, burnt like ephemeral 

sparks. 
Religion itself is perverted in this everlasting 

mutation : 
Are not the gods of the past, idols and falsehoods 

to us? 
Weary and sick is my heart, for no matter what 

truth I may conquer, 
Next day proves it a lie — was and has been — 

nothing now. 
That is enough, foolish fellow, thy reason is 

sorely benighted, 
Else thou the answer hadst read, writ in each 

word thou hast said : 
If all things are subject to change, why then too 

the change must be changing ; 
Change the change, and thou hast permanence. — 

Dost thou conceive? 



POEMS. 81 



Epigrams. 



Cap not your proofs with a proverb; their wis- 
dom is mighty deceptive, 

And your rival may read backward as well and as 
true. 



The means and the ends of thy life be both con- 
sistent with honor: 

Honor the means as a part, honor the ends as 
the all.* 



Money is king of the world, and worldlings are 
bondmen to money ; 

Still, there is infinite wealth, free from his tyran- 
nous rule. 



Nay, I condemn not your labor, but see that you 

work not for nothing ; 
Most of us might have achieved double the pay 

for our pains. 



Mere acquisition appears to be the great goal of 

the many ; 
See, how it dwindles away when application 

appears. 

6 



82 JjV RHYME AND TIME. 

Yes, I approve your ambition, but rate not this 

money too highly ; 
Pitiful poor is the man coining his life into gold. 



Truly the kingdom of joy is not ruled by the 

monarchs of money : 
Spirits of blessed content, need not a housing of 

gold. 
Felicity yields to no bribe, but your money can 

furnish 
Many a trifle and trick, many a pleasure and 

whim. 



Shall I present you the man that is borne on the 

full tide of fortune? 
He whose employment pursues, merely the bent 

of his mind. 



Tender your ear to the wise, for their discord is 

all a delusion ; 
Learn but the soul of their song, concord divine 

you will hear. 



Show me the purpose of man, and tell me his 

noblest ambition: 
Liberty! — but have a care, liberty means not 

caprice. 



POEMS. 83 

Able and honest opinions will join the most dar- 
ing opponents ; 
Only the stupid and false wrangle and cannot 



Discord proclaims imperfection, for liberty and 

compulsion, 
Selfish and generous deeds, are but a unit with 

God. 



Pity not, envy the man, that is moved by a breath 

of displeasure: 
Hearts that are racked with a storm, feel not the 

cursory breeze. 



Weary me not with your sermons of good and of 

evil behavior: 
Virtue and vice are but one, speaking in general 

terms. 
Show me a case in particular, bring me all cause 

and condition, 
Then I will try to decide, if it be good or 

be ill. 



84 m RHYME AND TIME. 

Law is no limit to greatness, but we must en- 
dure in its confines : 

Crimes that Achilles confessed will not be par- 
doned in you. 

Caesar once stole the whole earth, and his fame 
shall continue forever; 

Jack will be sent to the jail, if he but pilfer a 
loaf. 



Be not a cynic, my friend, nor condemn this 

imperfect existence, 
Tutor thy soul to imbibe draughts from the 

infinite spring. 
Many a charming nymph you will find on the 

marge of the fountain, 
Many a sage old man, — beauty and wisdom, 

what more? 



Young Alexander bemoaned the triteness of 

earthy dimensions ; 
Aged Diogenes found pleasure to busk in the sun. 



Strive to acquire an object for which thou 
wouldst willingly perish ; 

Onl}' from that moment on hast thou good rea- 
son to live. 



POEMS. 85 

If thou hast nothing more dear to thee than 

existence, 
Then thou already art dead, buried ignobly in 

flesh. 



Man and woman are two. Preserve their dis- 
tinction, I charge you : 

Opposite poles give a spark — mere repetition 
repels. 



Shakespeare was written by Bacon, old Goethe 

oft slipped in his morals, 
Homer, perhaps, never lived. There, I am done 

with ye all ! 



Some of us love the great books, but most of us 

still avoid them. 
Is it for fear we might learn what we already 

should know? 



Homer I saw in a bookstore, the price not so 

much as your dinner : 
Pennies will purchase a world, millions can yield 

you no more. 



86 IN BEYME AND TIME. 

Miracles are of the past, and our mighty Creator 

do longer 
Stretches adown his right arm, giving us proof of 

his power. 
Look you, a wonder more strange than the sun 

standing still on the hill-top, 
Lies in the wisdom divine, forciug him ever to 

move. 



Somehow I can not persuade me, that Christ 
could have walked on the water. 

Well, then he did not for you; but for some 
others he did. 



Paradise was to the beast, for it fell when man's 

wit was created. 
That was a wonderful fall, fall from below to 

above. 



Somehow I trust not the man who banks on the 

doctrine of mercy : 
Faith in the mercy of God, renders him apter to 

sin. 



Christ did not teach a religion, a creed, nor a 
church, nor a dogma. 

Said not Saint Paul to the Greeks. " all too relig- 
ious ye are ? ' ' 



POEMS. 87 

Mark, how in ages long past, man feared or was 

strange to his deity. 
Christ was the first to reveal participation in God. 



Truth is the aim of the arts, of philosophy and of 

religion : 
All, though by different paths, strive to the same 

great end. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 



(89) 



The Rosebud on the Heather. 

Once a boy a rosebud spied, 

Rosebud on the heather : 
There it bloomed in virgin pride, 
Quickly to the spot he hied, 

Loved it altogether. 
Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 

Rosebud on the heather. 

Said the. boy : " I'll pluck thee, too, 
Rosebud on the heather ! " 

Said the rose : " And, if you do, 

I will sting, and thou shalt rue 
This offense forever." 

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 
Rosebud on the heather. 

(91) 



92 in RHYME AND TIME. 

And the boy in passion wrung 
Rosebud from the heather ; 

Rosebud struggled, wept and stung ; 

All in vain, the wild boy wrung 
Thorns and rose together. 

Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, 
Rosebud on the heather. 



Found. 

Alone I sauntered 

Through shadowy wood; 
In search of nothing, 

In tranquil mood. 



In vale sequestered 

I spied afar 
A flower, glistening 

Like diamond star. 

I stooped to pluck it, 
When soft it said: 

Shall I to wither 

Be plucked, and dead? 

With all its rootlets 

I dug it out, 
That in my garden 

It still might sprout. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 93 

And there I set it 

With tender care; 
It thrives as ever, 

And blooms as fair. 



The Shepherd. 

He was a lazy keeper, 
A dreamy Seven-sleeper, 
Cared little for his sheep. 

A damsel need but touch him, 
When misery would clutch him : 
No appetite, no sleep. 

He roamed with heart encumbered, 
The midnight stars he numbered, 
Did little else than weep. 

Now, that the damsel took him, 
He found all that forsook him : 
Thirst, appetite and sleep. 



94 ffl EHYME AND TIME. 



To Luna. 

Sister of the pristine light, 
Image fair of love in mourning ! 
Silvery mists thy face adorning 
Float about thy visage bright; 

Thy soft footfall, fairy light, 
Wakes from caves and day less holes, 
Wandering, woe-departed souls, 
Me, and ghostly birds of night. 

Searchingly thy glances glide 
O'er a grandly measured distance. 
Grant the dreamer thy assistance, 
Lift me, goddess, to thy side! 
And in amorous delight, 
Would the tempest-driven lover 
Peer through bars and lattice cover, 
See his loved one, night for night. 

Contemplation's ecstasy 
Soothes the distant lover's sorrow ; 
And thy shining beams I borrow, 
And with Argus' eyes I see. 
Bright and brighter, more and more, 
All her beauty lies unshielded, 
Draws me down, as you once yielded 
To Endymion's charms of yore. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 95 



A Lover's Longing. 

I think of thee, when merry sunlight dances 

Upon the deep ; 
I think of thee, when Luna's quivering glances 

In fountains sleep. 

I see thee, love, when far the distant highway- 
Is wrapt in dust ; 

In dead of night, when through a lonely by-way, 
The wanderer must. 

I hear thee, love, when surgy billows tumble 

With ceaseless moan ; 
In shaded glen, where all is hushed and humble, 

I list alone. 

I am with thee; and wert thou e'er so distant, 

Thou still art near ! 
The sun is set, the stars begin to glisten, 

Would thou wert here ! 



96 itf BHYME AND TIME. 



Calm at Sea. 

Weary silence rules the water, 
Not a ripple roughs the main; 
And the sailor peers disheartened 
O'er the endless, glassy plain. 
Not a breath from any quarter ! 
Drowsy death lies on the deep ! 
In the wide and viewless water, 
Wind and wave are fast asleep. 



Admonition. 

Wilt thou ever ramble further? 

See, the good lies all so near : 
Do but learn to grapple fortune, 

Her delights are ever here. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 



May Song. 

All nature sparkles 
In pristine light ! 

The sun refulgent ! 
The fields how bright ! 

Quick blossoms labor 
In bush and tree, 

And song-birds carol 
Their jubilee; 

And joy and rapture 
Expand the breast. 

O earth, O heaven, 
O sunlight blest ! 

O love, O longing ! 

So golden bright; 
Like break of morning 

On yonder height ! 

You shower a blessing 
On teeming lands; 

With crescent fervor 
The world expands. 

7 



98 IN RHYME AND TIME. 

O maiden, maiden, 
My heart is thine ! 

Thine eyes give answer ! 
Thy heart is mine ! 



So loves the lark 
High heaven's blue, 

So blossoms love 
The glist'ning dew, 



As I, with eager 
And warm delight, 

Love thee, sweet maiden, 
Who day and night 



Plays on my heartstrings 
In measured rhyme. 

Be ever happy 
As thou art mine ! 



TBANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 99 



The Shepherd's Lament. 

I stand on the hill-top yonder, 

A thousand times, I know, 
Upon my crook-staff bending, 

And gaze on the valley below. 

I follow the sheepflocks grazing, 

My shepherd dog watches them well ; 

I've dropped from the hill to the valley, 
But how, I can scarcely tell. 

The meadow is brightly spangled 
With blossoms of brilliant hue; 

I pick them, but all without knowing 
Whom I shall give them to. 

In thunder, rain and in lightning, 

I stand by a sheltering tree. 
The door of yon house will not open ; 

'Tis only a phantom I see. 

A rainbow is airily guarding 

The house, with its prismical band ! 

But she, who lived there, has wandered 
Far into a distant land; 

Far over the land and further, 

Perhaps e'en over the seas. 
Move onward, ye sheep, move onward, 

The shepherd is ill at ease. 



100 IN BHYME AND TIME. 



To the Moon. 

Now again o'er bush and dell 

Floats thy misty light, 
And at last thy magic spell 

Frees my bosom's night. 

Down the vista of my past 

Soothingly you look, 
Like a friend, thine eye is cast 

On my fated book. 

Echoes far from days of old 

Steal into mine ear, 
Paradise and pain untold, 

Greet me, wandering here. 

River dear, flow on, flow on ; 

Like thy spumy froth, 
Jest and kiss, for aye, have gone, 

And her plighted troth. 

Still, there was a time, when I 
Love's delights possessed; 

And remembrance with a sigh 
Still disturbs my rest. 

Rush, dear river, rush along, 

Neither stop nor stay, 
Rush and whisper to my song 

Thy melodious lay, 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 101 

When thy billows surge and rave 

In the wintry night, 
Or thy tepid waters lave 

Vernal blossoms bright. 

Blessed he, who without hate, 
Shuns the world's great noise, 

To his bosom clasps a friend, 
And with him enjoys 

What, unknown to mortal man, 

Journeys by thy light, 
Through the bosom's labyrinth 

In the stilly night. 



Sledge or Anvil. 

Mark my words, and do not grumble 

Struggle in life's early hour 

To be wise and to be free; 

In the scales of fortune's power, 

Fixed balauce can not be : 

You must climb or you must tumble, 

You must conquer and then king it, 

Or must slave and lose it all ; 

Swim or sink, or rise or fall, 

Sledge or anvil you must be. 



102 IN BHYME AND TIME. 



Vanitas ! Vanitatum Vanitas ! 

My heart is set on nothing now, 

Hurra ! 
The world may wag, I care not how, 

Hurra ! 
Whoever would my companion be, 
Lift high his bumper and sing with me. 
Set the last bottle free ! 

My heart was set on goods and gold, 

Hurra ! 
And then my summer mood caught cold, 

Oh psha ! 
The coin kept rolling far and near, 
And when I tried to seize it here, 
There it would disappear. 

On women next I. set my heart, 

Hurra ! 
And hell on earth was all my part, 

Oh psha ! 
The false one led me by the nose, 
The true one palled, as dull as prose, 
The best, another chose. 

I set my heart on travel theu, 

Hurra ! 
And left my home, my countrymen, 

Oh psha ! 



TBANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 103 

And I was always ill at ease, 

The beds were bad, and big the fees, 

And the food worse than these. 

I set my heart on honor's store, 

Hurra ! 
And see, another soon had more; 

Oh psha ! 
When I attained to high degree, 
The people began to squint at me, 
Tried but my faults to see. 

I set my heart on thundering war, 

Hurra ! 
With gun and sword we traveled far, 

Hurra ! 
We conquered the foe, and forged his chains, 
But friends were lost, and for my pains 
Only one leg remains. 

And now on nothing my heart is set, 

Hurra ! 
And mine's the world from rise to set, 

Hurra ! 
Now song and feast have come to end; 
But e'en the dregs let us befriend, 
Till the last drop descend. 



104 IN BHYME AND TIME. 



The Angler. 

The waters flow'd, the waters swell' d, 

Upon the brink he lay, 
And calmly viewed the line he held 

And watch 'd the wavelets play. 
And as he lies and listens there, 

The restless floods unclose: 
And from the waves, bewitching fair, 

A dripping sea-nymph rose. 

She sang to him, she spoke to him, 

" Why dost thou lure my brood, 
With human wit and human guile, 

Out of their native flood? 
Ah, if thou knew'st how merrily 

We frolic there below, 
You'd come to us, and verily, 

I'd heal thy bossom's woe. 

The sun and sister moon delight 

To see their mirrored face: 
He comes by day, and she by night 

To Neptune's cool embrace. 
Art thou not moved by this deep sky, 

So fathomless, so blue? 
Not by thy image floating by, 

Wash'd in eternal dew? " 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 105 

The waters flow'd, the waters swell'd, 

They laved his naked feet ; 
Soft longings in his bosom well'd, 

He saw his true-love greet. 
She spoke to him, she sang to him, 

Resistless was her strain, 
Half drew she him, half sank he in, 

And ne'er was seen again. 



The King in Thule. 

There was a king in Thule, 
All faithful to the grave, 

To whom his dying mistress 
A golden goblet gave. 

He prized no jewel better 
Than this beloved cup; 

A glistening tear would gather 
Whene'er he took it up. 

And as his days were ending 
He gave all to his heir, 

His sceptre and his cities, 
But not the goblet, rare. 



106 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

High in his sea-washed castle, 
In proud ancestral hall, 

He sat at kingly table, 
Surrounded by his thrall. 



There stood the old carouser, 
Drank Bacchus' golden blood, 

And cast the sacred beaker 
Down to the seething flood. 

He saw it dropping, drinking, 
And sinking in the main. 

His eyelids closed forever, 
Drank never a drop again. 



The Youth and the Mill-race, 

YOUTH. 

Where are you going, little brook, 

So sprightly? 

You run with clear and laughing look, 

So lightly. 

What is't you seek in yonder lea? 

1 prithee stop and speak to me. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 107 



MILL-RACE. 



I was a brooklet onco, good sir, 

But look ye, 

Into a ditch so narrow here 

They took me, 

That full and swift I run, until 

They make me work in yonder mill 



YOUTH. 

You skip along contentedly 

To labor, 

Know'st not the pain that troubles me, 

Thy neighbor. 

I ween, the miller's pretty lass 

Looks often in thy watery glass. 



MILL-RACE. 

At blush of dawn she daily seeks 

Her duty, 

And comes to bathe her dimpled cheeks' 

Soft be*auty. 

Her bosom swells so full and white, 

I steam and bubble at the sight. 



108 IN RHYME AND TIME. 



YOUTH. 

If to the water she imparts 

Desire, 

How shall I quench ray human heart'; 

Hot fire ? 

A single look, and then 'tis done, 

One's peace of mind is ever gone. 



MILL-RACE. 

Then plunging on the wheel I dash 

My powers, 

And all the paddles whirl and splash 

In showers. 

Since e'er the maid is busy here, 

The water works with better cheer. 



Ah brook, cans't thou not feel the stress 

As we do? 

She laughs at thee and cries in jest, 

God speed you ! 

And yet, methinks, her amorous look 

Might even check thy haste, O brook. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 109 

MILL-RACE. 

I am so loth, so loth to go 

From hither, 

I wind my way now there, and flow 

Now thither. 

And if I had my choice, good sir, 

I quickly would run back to her. 

YOUTH. 

Farewell, companion of a pain 

I treasure ; 

Some day, perchance, you'll sing a strain 

Of pleasure. 

Go, straightway to my love impart, 

What secret longing moves my heart. 



Mismatched. 

Even a couple divine discovered itself mismated: 
Psyche grew older and wise, Cupid is ever a 
child. 

Apology. 

Say not that woman is fickle in wavering from 

one to another ! 
All this endeavor she spends, seeking a constant 

man. 



110 IN RHYME AND TIME. 

Elegy III. 

Let not thy pride, sweet girl, feel ashamed at thy 

speedy surrender ! 
Trust me, I think thee not bold, think none the 

less of thee for it. 
Cupid hath many a dart and different : some 

scratch but a little, 
And their poisonous sting rankles for years iu 

the heart; 
Others are mightily feather'd, and tipped with his 

heavenly fire, 
Burn their path to the bone, kindling with rap- 
ture the blood. 
In the heroic great age, when goddess and god 

were enamored, 
Then to behold was to crave, then was to crave 

to enjoy. 
Think' st thou, the goddess of love delayed for a 

while to consider, 
When she in Ida's cool shade saw that Anchises 

was fair? 
Truly, had Luna neglected to kiss the adorable 

sleeper, 
Envious Aurora's caress quickly had wakened 

the youth. 
Hero's bright eyes met Leander's, aud now the 

passionate lover 
Plunges with setting sun, down to the Hellespont's 

flood. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. Ill 

Khea Sylvia sauntered, the princely virgin, to 

draw 
Tiber's water, and there she was embraced by the 

god. 
Thus did Olympian Mars beget himself sons ! — 

A wolfbitch 
Suckles the twins, and Rome calls herself queen 

of the world. 



Elegy X. 

Alexander and Caesar and Henry and Frederick, 

the mighty, 
Gladly on me would bestow half their immortal 

renown, 
Could I, to each of them, grant this couch for a 

single night's pleasure; 
But the poor wretches are held deep in the realm 

of the shades. 
Therefore, O mortal, rejoice in the blessing of 

love's warm passion; 
Soon will thy fugitive foot shiver in Lethe's 

wave. 

A Lover's Letter. 

Wherefore I take my pen to hand again? 
Thou must not, dearest, ask that so directly : 
My letter brings no news, but serves correctly, 
For it will reach my loved one's touch and ken. 



112 IN BHYME AND TIME. 

Because I can not come, let this my sending, 
Convey my love to thee in bootless fashion, 
My bliss, hopes, ecstasies, joys, torments, pas- 
sion — 
But this has no beginning and no ending. 

I'll not confide to thee of this day's doing, 

How in reflection, fancies and desire 

My faithful heart essays to be with thee : 

Thus I stood by thee once, thy face reviewing, 
And spoke no word. What words did I require? 
My soul's contentment could no greater be. 



The Goblet, 

With embracing hands I held a goblet, 
Deftly carved and filled by golden Bacchus ; 
From its rim, I drained the beaded potion 
In one draught, to drown all grief and sorrow, 

Cupid softly entered, and surveyed me 
With a modest smile upon his visage, 
As in pity of the foolish fellow. 

" Friend, I know a far more fairer vessel, 
Worthy to absorb thy inmost spirit ; 
What requital, if I bring it to thee, 
Fill it for thee with a different nectar? " 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 113 

Oh, how kindly Cupid kept his promise, 
When you, Lida, moved by his persuasion, 
Gently yielded to your pining lover. 

When with rapture I embrace thy body, 
And from lips unkissed by any other, 
Drink the balm of thy long-stored affection, 
Then in bliss I commune with my spirit : 

Such a vessel never yet was fashioned, 
Nor possessed by any god save Cupid. 
Vulcan never from his shining marble 
Carved such harmony with gifted chisel. 
On his vine-clad mountains, may Lyaeus, 
With his fauns, the wisest and most ancient, 
Press the clusters of his grapes celestial, 
Guide himself the mystic fermentation; 
Wine like this, no skill of his can furnish. 

Cupid as a Landscape Painter. 

Sat I on a rocky peak one morning, 
Gazed with fixed eyes into the vapor ; 
Like a canvas with a grayish background, 
It arose before me and above me. 

Suddenly a boy appeared beside me, 
Saying: •* Gentle friend, why art thou gazing 
With indifference on the empty canvas? 
Can it be, that thou hast lost thy passion 
To create in plastic and in picture? " 

8 




114 m BHYME AND TIME. 

Looking on the child, I thought in secret: 

" Hem, the lad presumes to play the master." 

" While you thus continue sad and idle/' 
Said the youngster, " it will come to nothing: 
Come, I'll paint a little picture for thee. 
Teach thee, how to paiut a pretty picture." 

And he pointed with his index finger, 
Like a blushing rose was its complexion, 
To the wide interminable canvas, 
Started then to sketch with rosy finger: 

First on high a radiant sun he painted, 
Shining mightily into my vision, 
And the clouds he touched with golden lining, 
Made the glinting sunbeams dance between them 

Painted then the tree-tops, delicately, 
Of a dew-gemmed forest, traced the hill-tops 
Just behind them, one beside the other; 
Underneath he left no lack of water, 
Sketched the river so precise to nature, 
That it seemed to glitter in the sunlight, 
That it seemed to rush along its margin. 

Ay, and flowers bloomed beside the river, 
And the meadow teemed in living colors, 
Gold and green and red and blue and purple, 
Sparkling all, like emeralds and rubies. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 115 

Then the lambent sky he deftly shaded, 
And the azure mountains far and further, 
So that I enrapt and re-created, 
Looked upon the painter and the picture. 

"Now, at least," he said, "I have convinced 

thee, 
That I am no tyro in this business ; 
But the hardest still remains before me." 

Thereupon he sketched with pointed finger 
Heedfully, beside the little forest, 
Just upon its boundary, where the sunlight 
Shone reflected on the luscious greensward, 
Sketched a most bewitching, lovely maiden, 
Well proportioned, gracefully attired, 
Dimpled cheeks beneath her auburn tresses, 
And the cheeks were of the self-same color 
As the dainty finger, that produced them. 

" Tell me, boy," I cried, " who was thy master, 
That so speedily and true to nature, 
Thou could' st first arrange it all so wisely, 
Then complete it all to such perfection? " 

As I spoke these words, a gentle zephyr 
Fluttered lightly in the leafy tree-tops, 
Rippled all the waves upon the river, 
Filled the veil of my consummate maiden, 
And what made me,wondering, still more wonder, 
Was to see the maid herself in motion, 



116 IN BBYME AND TIME. 

See her to the very spot approaching, 
Where I sat beside my wanton tutor. 

Now, that all about me was in motion, 
Kiver, trees and flowers and the garment, 
And the dainty feet of fairest maiden, 
Do ye think, that on my rock 1 lingered 
Like a rock, unmoved by all this motion? 



The Frogs. 

A pond was covered with ice and snow; 
The little frogs, penned in the water below, 
No longer were able to croak and spring; 
But vowed to each other while half asleep, 
Could they but rise from prison deep, 
Like nightingales they would sweetly sing.- 
A sunbeam came, unlocked the door, 
They paddled and proudly hopped ashore, 
And sat on the margin far and wide, 
And croaked as ever, so woe-betide. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 117 



Different. 

One day we sauntered side by side, 

Deep in the forest green; 
I tried to kiss her, " Stop ! " she cried, 

" If you do that, I'll scream." 

In rage I shouted: " Zounds ! I'll kill 

The man dares interfere ! " 
" Hush ! dear," she whispered low, " be still ! 

There may be some one near." 



Ingenious Impulse. 

I roll, howe'er the world may run, 

Like Saint Diogenes my tun. 
Now I am serious, now in fun, 

Now love and seek, now hate and shun, 
Now this, now that, is tried, begun, 

Sometimes 'tis something, sometimes none, 
I roll, howe'er the world may run, 

Like Saint Diogenes my tun. 



118 IN RHYME AND TIME. 



To an Original. 

A quidam eays : " I recognize no system 
No master lives to whom I listen; 
And I am proud as proud can be, 
That dead men never tutored me." 
That means, if I am not mistaken, 
" I am an ass of my own making." 



The Way of the World. 

When 1 was a youngster, devil-may-care, 

Happy and go as you please, 

No painter or sculptor did ever declare, 

That my features were likely to please. 

But many a bonny lass 1 knew, 

Whose lips were sweet, whose heart \v;is (rue. 

Now as I sit here, a master and old, 

My name is sounded in every land; 

On pipes and platters I am sold, 

Like ancient Fritz on every hand. 

But the maidens fair remain afar ; 

O dream of youth ! O golden star ! 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 119 



Sayings in Rhyme. 



If to infinity you would stride, 
Walk in the finite on every side. 



The universe may be your feast, 

If you can discover the all, in the least, 



Why boys with girls delight to dance ? 
Extremes will meet at every chance. 



That man in safe condition rests, 
Who carries out his own behests. 



If you stretch longer than your sheet, 
You'll find yourself with naked feet. 



Kissed lips and the new moon 
Convalesce soon. 



120 IN BHTME AND TIME. 

How excellently all would chime, 
If we could do 't a second time. 



They simply say : I like it not ! 
And then they think it's gone to pot. 



We treat a matter in conversation, 
With ample reflection and long hesitation, 
And in the end, an evil " must " 
Concludes the question in disgust. 



However your deed, successful and good, 
May be met by an enemy's carping mood, 
Sooner or later, to his shame, 
He'll will he, nill he, do the same. 



If you have been wronged by a noble man, 
Dismiss it from memory, as quick as you can 
He'll think of it to the very letter, 
And will not long remain your debtor. 



Ivy and a tender heart 

Lovingly cling with gentle art. 

If they can find neither trunk nor wall, 

They must wither and wilt and fall. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 121 

Whom shall we call Dame Fortune's favorite 

son? 
Who gladly labors, and enjoys what's done. 



I know of no greater advautage on earth, 
Than to perceive my enemy's worth. 



A masquerade is not the place 
To take the visor from your face. 



Fortune's whole troop 
Cannot help the loon : 
If rain were soup, 
He'd have no spoon. 



This mundane sphere is not a gruel-stew ; 
A lotus-eater's life one cannot follow: 
There be many tough bits to chew, 
And we must choke or swallow. 



122 m BHTME AND TIME. 



Tame Xenia. 



Leave we the temporal, 
Whate'er it be ! 
Ourselves to immortalize 
Is the decree. 



" Why do you slightly heed 
All that is done?" 
We live in the deed, 
What's done, is done. 



" You speak of immortality; 

Let's have your reasons, for we doubt it." 

One reason is, mortality 

Can never get along without it. 



" Who is a useless man, I pray? " 
One that knows neither how to command nor 
obey. 



Jackdaws screech about the people 
That are the buttons on the steeple. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 123 

How busily they pry and pother, 
With thinking they are all undone. 
They'd like to find an answer, other 
Than his, who has the proper one. 



What women love, what women hate, 
Shall be their privilege sans debate ; 
But when they try to judge and reason, 
Methinks, they're clearly out of season. 



The student of science and art 
Has likewise religion ; 
Whoever has neither science nor art, 
Should have religion. 



" Why as with a broom, pray tell me, 
Were these kings swept out of door? " 
Had they been real kings, I tell ye, 
They might still have held the floor. 



124 IN RHYME AND TIME. 



Sayings in Prose. 



All things wise have already been thought, 
one must merely endeavor to think them again. 



In the works of man, as in those of nature, it 
is really the intentions, that deserve foremost 
consideration. 



If I am to listen to the opinion of another, it 
must be expressed positively; of the problemati- 
cal I have enough in myself. 



Certain books seem to have been written, not 
for the purpose of teaching anything, but rather 
to inform us, that the author knew something. 



Many a man taps about the wall with a ham- 
mer, and imagines that he hits the nail on the 
head every time. 



Writing history, is a way to rid one's self of 
the past. 



TBANtiLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 125 

What we do not understand, we do not possess. 



Instead of contradicting my words, they should 
act according to my purport. 



Snow is a sham cleanliness, 



It is said : vain self-praise smells : that may be ; 
but for the odor of alien and unjust censure, the 
public has no nose. 



The puddle glistens when the sun shines. 



The miller imagines, that wheat grows merely 
to supply his mill. 



The Hindoos of the desert vow to eat no fish, 



Wise men have much in common. — Aeschylus. 



126 in BHYME AND TIME. 

It is the most foolish of all errors, when clever 
young heads fear to lose their originality, by ac- 
knowledging a truth, which others have acknowl- 
edged before them. 



It is much easier to detect an error, than to find 
tbe truth: the former lies at the surface, and 
there is little difficulty with that; the latter dwells 
in the depth; to search for it, is not every one's 
affair. 



If one demands duties without conceding rights, 
one must pay well. 



Ingratitude is always a kind of weakness. I 
have never noticed that able men have been 
ungrateful. 



A prudent man is not subject to slight follies. 



Error evermore repeats itself in action: there- 
fore one must untiringly repeat the truth in 
words. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 127 

" The Greeks, of all peoples, have dreamed 
the dream of life most beautifully." 



That is true symbolism, where the particular 
represents the universal, not as a dream and 
shadow, but as the living instantaneous revelation 
of the inscrutable. 



On acquiring freedom all men assert their 
defects ; the strong exaggerate, the week neglect. 



What government is the best? That which 



teaches us to govern ourselves. 



There is nothing more terrible than an active 



It makes quite a difference, whether a poet 
seeks the particular for the universal, or beholds 
the universal in the particular. The former 
results in allegory, wherein the particular passes 
as a mere instance or example of the universal; 
the latter, on the other hand, is really the nature 
of poesy, uttering the particular, without thought 
or reference to the universal. Now, whosoever 
seizes this particular in its life, receives at the 
same time the universal, without becoming aware 
of it, or at least not until late. 



128 IN BBYME AND TIME. 

The world takes every man as he shows him 
self; but he must show himself as something. We 
had rather endure an inconvenient person, than 
tolerate an insignificant one. 



We do not become acquainted with people when 
they come to us; we must go to them, to learn 
how matters stand with them. 



Voluntary dependency is the most beautiful of 
all conditions, and how were that possible with- 
out love ! 



Against the great advantages of another, the 
only remedy is love. 



No man is more enslaved, than he who mistak- 
ingly considers himself free. 



One cannot more surely evade the world than 
through the arts, and one can not more surely 
link himself to her, than through the arts. 



To express one's self is nature ; to receive ex- 
pressions as they are given, is culture. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 129 

Nothing more marks a man's character, than 
that which he finds absurd. 



The understanding finds almost everything 
absurd ; reason, almost nothing. 



There are but two true religions ; one, which 
entirely without form, the other, which in the 
fairest form, acknowledges and worships what is 
holy within and about us. All that lies between 
is idolatry. 



We are never deceived, we deceive ourselves. 



All laws were framed by the aged and by men. 
Youths and women desire the exception, old men 
the rule. 



It is not sufficient to know, we must also 
apply ; it is not sufficient to wish, we must also 
act. 



Did we put ourselves in the place of others, 
the hatred and jealousy we so often harbor 
against them, would fall away; and did we put 
others in our place, pride and conceit would de- 
crease considerably. 



130 IN RHYME AND TIME. 

Modern poets mix a great deal of water with 
their ink. 



Does the sparrow then know the stork's frame 
of mind? 



Whoever misses the first button-hole, will not 



come out right with his buttoning. 



Our adversaries think they disprove our argu- 
ments, when they reiterate their own opinion, 
without paying the least attention to ours. 



The problem which aspiring men find hard to 
solve is, to acknowledge the merits of older 
contemporaries, and not permit themselves to be 
handicapped by their shortcomings. 



There is a germ of temerity in every artist, 
without which talent is inconceivable. This germ 
quickens especially when we circumscribe and 
cramp a capable man, wishing to hire and use 
him for one-sided purposes. 



TRANSLATIONS FROM GOETHE. 131 

Whoever intends to accuse an author of ob- 
scurity, should first scrutinize his own inner self, 
to see whether it be well illuminated there. In 
the dusk, very clear print becomes illegible. 



Peculiarity in expression, is the beginning and 
the end of all art. 



Ignorant people raise questions, which wise 
men have answered a thousand years ago. 



Man must abide in the belief, that the incom- 
prehensible may be comprehended: otherwise 
he would cease to investigate. 



Whatsoever one knows, one really knows only 
for himself. If I speak to another of that which 
I believe I know, he immediately believes to 
know it better, and I am compelled to retire 
with my knowledge into my inner self. 



The age has advanced: every individual, how- 
ever, starts from the beginning. 



132 IN RHYME AND TIME. 

Indulge the woman in her will ! 

From a crooked rib was she create, 
God could not make her perfectly straight. 

Try to bend her, she will break ; 
Leave her, and she'll crook still worse; 

Which, Adam, is the greater curse? 
Indulge the woman in her will; 

A broken rib will make you ill. 



If the landscape I'm to show, 
To the housetop you must go. 



To the Countess Titinne O'Donnell, who requested one of 
my writing quills. 

When the schoolboy dutifully 
With his satchel trudged to school, 
And began to scribble, duly, 
Letters with his feathered tool, 
Then the goal of his ambition 
Was to write a seemly hand : 
That his writing had a mission, 
Should receive wide recognition, 
Yea, that e'en a price should rule 
On his quills, the boy at school, 
Sitting on his lowly stool, 
Surely did not understand. 



